


the hills go out

by Order_Of_The_Forks



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: 1940s AU, Human AU, M/M, help this is all angst, idea by reys_humble_habod, please follow them on instagram they have the most amazing art, snorkmaiden's there too but she doesn't have a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-04-06 08:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Order_Of_The_Forks/pseuds/Order_Of_The_Forks
Summary: Something sinister had settled in Moominvalley, in the post office trucks and the river water and the newspapers.Moomin saw the reaper in Sniff's nervous laughter, in Snufkin's smiling eyes, in his own shaking hands.It floated in on the wind and landed on the Moomins' doorstep, raising its skeletal hand to knock.





	1. Chapter 1

It settled over Moominvalley like a dense fog.

Completely present but wholly unacknowledged. 

Like a fall morning where the tops of the trees are obscured and the sky hangs like a wet blanket overhead.

Nobody talked about it. Nobody wanted to.

Like when one hangs the linen out on the line to look up and see a fat, grey raincloud hovering overhead. One could bring in the laundry for another day, but it was much easier to close one’s eyes and pretend it would all pass over.

The fog seeped into every aspect of life. It turned the newspapers damp and slipped under doorways to make the air dense and muggy.

It made the birds in the trees sleepy, and their songs were lethargic and droning, like funeral marches.

The fog crept into Moominhouse slowly and steadily. It came in little things, like ration cards and Moominpapa’s newspaper.

Moominmamma stopped planting flowers in the garden and began to plant vegetables. 

Snorkmaiden began to make hundreds of blankets, shipping them off overseas in big paper packages at the post office.

The fog made everyone antsy. It made Moominmamma and Moominpapa argue and it made Little My and Snorkmaiden spend as much time as possible with their male friends. It made Sniff cry when he listened to the radio.

“Any day now,” Snufkin kept saying. As he fished, as he ate, as he hunted for seashells along the shore with his friends. “Any day now.”

The fog made Snufkin laugh. When Moomin would fall in the mud or when Moominpapa showed him a comic in the newspaper. He had no reservations about laughing. Like he was trying to use up all his humor.

He would hook his arms over Moomin’s shoulders and rest his chin in Moomin’s hair, grinning. Always holding, always touching. As if Snufkin refused to let Moomin go. 

Moomin became so used to Snufkin’s arms around him that he became lonesome even when the boy got up to use the bathroom, even though he knew Snufkin would be back.

But the fog made Moomin afraid. 

Scared for his friends. Scared for the _world_. 

It stood like a reaper at doorways, waiting for the “all clear” before it dared knock.

One afternoon in early autumn, one of the few days when the fog let up and let Moomin breathe, him and Sniff played checkers on the porch, chatting easily and letting the last rays of golden summer reach their sun-freckled cheeks. 

Little My, who had been ever more insolent since the fog rolled into town, jumped out of the living room window, landing square in the middle of the checkerboard with a monstrous shout. 

It frightened the both of them, but especially Sniff, who had been jumpy and nervous since he had first felt the cool fog on his skin. Sniff screeched like an owl and clutched at his chest, his lower lip beginning to quiver dangerously.

“Cowards!” Little My chuckled. “What on earth will you do if you’re deployed?”

Big fat tears rolled down Sniff’s cheeks. “My!” Moomin admonished. “You musn’t joke about such things!” 

“It was all in good fun!” Little My argued, stalking back into the house haughtily.

“Not to us, it wasn’t,” Sniff mumbled.

 

~

 

The fog was always particularly heavy when the postman came to Moominhouse. 

So thick that whenever Moomin fetched the mail, he could barely see the features of the postman’s face, just the letters he held in his outstretched hand.

They opened the letters around the dining table with Moominpapa’s ornate letter opener, holding their breath with every envelope.

There was one day when Moomin had to run an errand while they read the post. He found himself in unnaturally high spirits, swinging the basket of scrap fabric he was tasked with bringing to Snorkmaiden’s house. They made polite conversation at the door. Snorkmaiden was making a large quilt to ship overseas, and she needed all the material she could. She was getting to be a very lovely lady, and Moomin felt almost proud to have grown up alongside her. 

As he strolled back to Moominhouse, whistling all the way, he neglected to notice the silence of the birds and the way the trees moaned in the wind. 

Moomin rounded the corner leading to Moominhouse.

There was Snufkin standing on the bridge, alone, a crisp white letter clutched between his fingers. 

Moomin broke into a run.

Snufkin said nothing. He didn’t need to. Moomin knew.

He knew from the shaking of his hands and the way his heart sank, beating like a bass drum, to the pit of his gut. He knew from the wind in his hair and the ground beneath his feet. He knew from the fog that hung before his eyes like a heavy white veil, making Snufkin swim in and out of focus before him. 

Moomin flung his arm around Snufkin and cried. 

He held onto Snufkin like he was a rock in the middle of a raging ocean.

And he could hear nothing but the water running under the bridge and the blood rushing to his ears.

Moomin thought it had begun to rain but when he looked up into his friend’s red-rimmed eyes, he realized it had only been Snufkin’s tears in his hair. 

Moomin would give anything for Snufkin to smile. For him to smile and laugh and hold his hands tight and say that everything would be okay. 

But Snufkin did no such thing.

He simply allowed Moomin to pull him close to his chest and hold him there for a long, long time.

That night, Snufkin slept in Moomin’s room. 

Moomin understood. 

Neither said anything all through dinner or when they brushed their teeth side by side in the bathroom or when Snufkin climbed into Moomin’s bed and buried himself in the embrace of his friend and cried harder than Moomin had ever seen anyone cry.

“We’re just kids,” Snufkin said that morning as they ate breakfast on the porch, just the two of them. His voice was husky and tired and although he didn’t know it, Moomin knew he had screamed in his sleep all night. 

Moomin did not respond, for he did not know how to. 

They were, weren’t they? 

It seemed like yesterday that they were going on adventures and exploring the forests surrounding Moominvalley with vigor and excitement.

Snufkin was so young. They all were. 

It didn’t matter that he was mature, that he had traveled, that he had a large vocabulary.

Because young people did not go to war to live.

They went to the train station a week later. It was brimming with people: families, couples, young men with suitcases.

And Snufkin.

He boarded the train silently.

The train stood still, like a purring cat, on the tracks for a minute.

Young men kissed their girls, promising letters and diamond rings when they returned.

Moomin walked up to the open window Snufkin’s face was occupying.

Snufkin pulled something from his suitcase and stuck his hand out of the window. The thing shone in the early morning sun, and Moomin took it. 

It was Snufkin’s harmonica.

“Snufkin…” Moomin said slowly. He knew it was no use trying to give it back.

“Think of me,” Snufkin said. His voice cracked on every word.

While the couples around them kissed and promised, they stood there, exchanging novels through their eyes.

“When will you be back?”

Snufkin did not answer. He watched the man in the window next to him, no more than a boy, tug on a loose curl next to the face of his lover, who used a flower-patterned handkerchief to hopelessly wipe at her eyes. The train began to hiss. 

“Spring.” He looked back at Moomin with tears running down his cheeks and into the corners of his smile. “I’ll be back some spring, Moomin.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some written correspondence.

_November 9, 1942_

_Cheerio._

_I know you believe me to be a very succinct man, a fact I will not deny, but I find that my time away has turned me into a right chatterbox! Unfortunately, as I have no one to talk to in this hellish place, you will receive the full brunt of it. Besides, I quite like writing letters. It lets me think about what I want to say before I say it. I would give anything to hear the sound of your voice, though. No letter can compare to that._

_I cannot tell you where I am. All of the men have been instructed to not disclose our location in our letters back home, I suppose out of concern that whoever we are writing to is secretly a German spy. You’re not a German spy, are you, Moomin? That would certainly put a damper on our friendship._

_I’m finishing up my training right now. Unlike most recruits, I already knew how to shoot a gun, and I have impressed the sergeant with my fluency in both Finnish and German, as well as my proficiency in other languages. They call me “nature boy” because of where I came from and I have yet to decide whether that is an endearing pet name or not. Please do not call me “nature boy” when I return, Moomin. I don’t think I could take it._

_We have hardly been here three months and already these men are wild for their girls back home. I consider it a blessing not to be tied up in that sort of thing. It seems wherever you go the topic of conversation is Betty Lou or Susan and I wish these men would talk about themselves for a while. I swear I know their girlfriends better than I know them. Speaking of swearing, these men have no decency when it comes to it. Moomin, if I never come back, I promise it won’t be the war that kills me, it’ll be the foul language._

_I almost regret writing that. I am coming home. I don’t believe all this can last much longer. Keep your pecker up- soon we’ll be sitting on the front porch, drinking lemonade and going on and on about inconsequential things._

_I’ll see you soon, my friend._

_-Snufkin_

 

~

 

The fog left with Snufkin.

Moomin could see it, hovering thick over the train as it went huffing down the tracks. 

And when he returned to Moominvalley, everything was clearer. Like someone had washed all the windows. 

The worry hadn’t completely dissipated, no. Logically they knew that any one of them could be next. But somehow it felt as though the danger had run its course. They knew deep in their guts that the storm had passed over. 

That autumn was a glorious one. The trees were a vibrant red and the pumpkins grew fat and orange on the vine.

Not that Moomin noticed, for he stayed in bed through most of it.

Moominpapa kept saying that he couldn’t stay bedridden for the rest of his life, but Moomin would simply turn over and pull the duvet over his ears. If he had to stay in bed for the duration of Snufkin’s service, so be it. But he refused to enjoy himself without his friend.

As the weeks went on Moomin began to sit in the living room, wrapped in a heavy blanket, watching out the window. As if at any moment Snufkin would come strolling down the path, humming on the harmonica that Moomin held clutched in his fingers.

The postman came and Moomin met him at the door, and for the first time Moomin could see his face clearly. It was one of pity. 

Moomin took the mail and carried it to the dining room, where Moominpapa waited with his letter opener, the gilt handle shining in the morning light. 

Moominpapa sorted through the mail, and as he picked one letter out of the pile, his face turned to one that Moomin could not hope to understand. “I think you should take this one, son.”

Moomin took the envelope. Across the front was his name and address, written in a scrawl as familiar to Moomin as his own. He took the letter and ran to his room, plunking down in the middle of his bed and ripping the envelope open with his bare hands. 

It was a letter from Snufkin.

Moomin must’ve looked insane, his face split into a watery grin as he savored every word. 

Nature boy.

Moomin read the letter three times over before taking it and pinning it up next to his bed. 

Every night, before he went to sleep, he recited the last paragraph from memory like a prayer.

 

~

 

_November 24, 1942_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_I cannot begin to describe how overjoyed I was to receive your letter. You’re absolutely right, nothing could compare to your voice. But the letters are wonderful._

_Everything is calm back home. Little My is joining the Women’s Land Army. We all think it will be good for her to be outside doing things with a purpose as opposed to staying inside and bugging us all day. She’s excited to be helping the effort. Who knows, maybe you’ll eat a potato or an ear of corn that she farmed. She got her uniform the other day. Do you have your uniform yet? I wonder what you look like in it. I bet you look dashing- you’ll have to be careful or the ladies overseas will be clambering to get a piece of you. (Was that too crass? I hope not. I’m sorry.)_

_Sniff is working for the post office now. Everyone likes to help out in their own way. I need to find something to do other than miss you._

_It’s starting to get cold up here. If this was a normal year, you’d be getting ready to leave for your travels. Maybe if I try very hard I can pretend you just left a little early this year, that you’re in some coastal paradise down south, far away from all of this. I’m going to have to start wearing sweaters soon. I say that as though it’s a pain, but I’m very excited to wear that maroon sweater Mamma got me the other year, the one with the yellow stripes. Or maybe I’ll wear that blue one you got me since you said I would look handsome in it. Snorkmaiden thinks so, so I think you were right. Either way, I will be nice and toasty this winter._

_There was a scrap metal drive the other day, led by some of the local kids. We gave all of our old pots and pans, the ones with the dents. Maybe you’ll get a gun made out of our cooking pot. Are you sure this mess will be over soon? I’m getting tired of the rationing. Usually this time of year, we’d have plenty of jam left over from the summer, but with the sugar rations, we could barely make any, so we have to save it for special occasions. I have a jar of blueberry jam saved for when you get home. I know it’s your favorite._

_I miss your laugh. You were always so joyful before you left. Do you ever get to laugh where you are? I can’t imagine there’s any reason to, but maybe you get to read the comics every once in a while. Smile for me, Snufkin. I can’t bear to think of you being sad._

_I wish I knew how to play your harmonica. It seems very lonesome, just sitting there without being played. But I’m going to keep it safe for you, and when you get home you can play it every day. Right now it’s in the front pocket of my overalls. I like having it there, where I can feel it. It’s like I have a little piece of you in my pocket._

_I know this is a short letter. I have so many feelings and stories to tell you but I suppose that will have to wait until when you get home. Maybe next letter will be longer. Please stay safe, Snufkin. Don’t be reckless and don’t get yourself into trouble._

_Your friend forever and ever._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

_December 17, 1942_

_Cheerio._

_Now I understand why they say letters from home are so important for morale. Your letter came in a big sack with all the other letters for the men. They were all climbing on top of each other trying to get at their “sugar report”. (it’s what they call letters from girls. I’ve learned quite a lot of slang here. I’m afraid my vocabulary has been irreparably damaged.) I was so happy to get your letter, Moomin. I don’t have a girl to get a letter from, just you. But I wouldn’t trade a letter from you for all the girls in the world. It’s funny- the men in my barrack don’t believe that anyone would get a letter from just a good friend back at home, so they think I’m just shy about my ladylove and that you’re actually a girl. I suppose Moomin isn’t the most masculine name, but I still find it awfully ridiculous._

_Tell Little My and Sniff congratulations. I bet My will fit right in. Yes, I have gotten my uniform, you silly boy. And I would like to believe I look quite nice, although I haven’t had any interactions with any khaki wacky girls yet. I’ll report back when I do. I’m very glad Moominmamma made me pack an extra pair of socks, as there’s some nasty trench foot making its way around. I’ve taken to keeping one pair on my feet and one pair under my helmet to keep them from getting wet. You’d be surprised at all the things people are having to come up with. Necessity is truly the mother of invention._

_I haven’t seen much action yet. I suppose I should count my blessings. A lot of the men have been tasked with building a bridge, but seeing as I’m one of the scrawniest (I like to believe I’m wiry, but I don’t have the muscle mass of some of these other men, especially the older ones) I’ve mostly been put on spud duty. I say, with the amount of potatoes I’m peeling, I’d be more surprised if I didn’t have one of Little My’s potatoes than if I did. It’s a lot of manual labor. Some of the men complain about being stuck doing chores instead of fighting, but the way I see it, I’d take a million K.P. assignments over a bullet to the brain._

_I’d tell you where we are, but I’m not entirely sure. I know we’re somewhere in [REDACTED], but nothing more specific than that. I believe they like to keep us in the dark so we can’t spill any secrets. Although it’s not like we’re doing much that would be of use to the Germans, just working and trying not to catch bronchitis. It’s getting pretty cold here, too. Cold and wet, mostly. I can’t imagine it’ll snow anytime soon. It’s not the right time for that. But I’m glad for that- I can’t imagine what this place is like in the snow. I’m glad you’ll be nice and warm in your sweaters. Every time you put one on, pretend you’re sending the heat down to me. I’d greatly appreciate it._

_Oh Moomin, please don’t talk of guns. I hear and see enough of it where I am, I don’t think I can stand to hear it from you. I wish you would keep your cooking pot. I am excited for that jam though. I’d like it much better than our daily S.O.S, something that I will not spell out for you. Especially not if the rest of the Moomins read these letters. I’m sure Moominmamma would fall down dead if she read it. Tell Moominmamma that when I get home I will expect a full feast, with blueberry jam and cake and roast chicken. I’m getting hungry just thinking of it._

_To answer your question, Moomin- no, I do not laugh here. It’s too somber of a place to laugh. The only time I smile is when I read your letter or think of you as I work. Is it embarrassing to say I dream about you sometimes? That is to say, us. Last night I dreamt that we were fishing on the river, and then we were under the water, watching the fish swim all around us. They weren’t like the real fish that are in the river, though. They were bright and small and all the colors of the rainbow. Then the water got muddy so I couldn’t see you, and when I came to the surface, all the fish were belly-up in the water. When I woke up, the man in the bunk below me was gone, and nobody had come to clear away his bloody sheets._

_I’m sorry for ending this letter on such a sad note. I’m sure with the radio and the newspaper you don’t need any more bad news. But I’m surviving, and I plan on keeping it up for as long as I can scrape by on kitchen duty. I’ve learned all sorts of new songs, mostly from the sailors who sing as they wash dishes. When I get back, make me sing for you._

_I’ll see you soon, my friend._

_-Snufkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up whats up whats up! thank you to everyone who commented, keep it up ;)  
> thanks to that person who inadvertently shouted me out on insta  
> if anyone spots any inaccuracies or anything pls tell me i know very little about ww2  
> my favorite part of this: they Boys not realizing that everything they're saying is Very Gay  
> happy pride
> 
> Military Slang:  
> \- khaki wacky: a girl who 'loves a man in uniform' if yaknowwhatimean  
> \- spud duty: kitchen duty  
> \- K.P. (assignment): Kitchen Patrol  
> \- S.O.S.: Shit On a Shingle (toast and chipped beef)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snufkin ruminates.

There were things that Snufkin did not disclose in his letters.

Things like the constant smell of blood and disease that hung around the barracks. The men that would come back from working on the seemingly endless stream of projects with their legs mangled or their fingers twisted, only to moan in their sleep all night and be gone in the morning. 

Like the man that, just the night before, had exclaimed during supper that he’d rather lay down and die than let the goddamn Jerrys take him and stood up, stabbing himself in the gut with his steak knife and falling promptly into the potatoes that Snufkin had so painstakingly peeled earlier that day.

Snufkin had puked in the latrine and told himself that he would never tell Moomin about any of this.

He would not tell Moomin about the nights where he would wake with a jolt, feeling as though some kind of magical force had thrust its fist clean through his chest, squeezing Snufkin’s heart until the blood oozed through its fingers. He would not tell Moomin about sitting doubled over on his linen sheets, listening to the men snore around him, with his arms around his torso so tight he would burst, trying to stifle his sobs so as not to wake the sleeping men. The nights where he could almost _feel_ the wound in his flesh where he knew a bullet would inevitably lodge. 

But Moomin deserved letters about kind things, as kind as anything could be in times like these. 

Snufkin ate half portions at mealtimes, keeping himself too weak for any real work. If this was what it took to get back, so be it. Once he was home he could gorge himself on pancakes and blueberry jam all he wanted.

There were times when he felt okay. 

When he was playing cards with some of the other men or when they sang songs, the kind that rambled on forever. 

But the song always ended and the only noise was the buzz of the lights and the roar of engines. 

They changed location a lot. Just as soon as they were done with one task, they were shipped away to work on another project or to storm another town. Snufkin wasn’t trusted with a lot. He was young, untested, and frail, so his duties either fell under housework or transportation. He drove trucks across borders, the backs of them filled with parcels he was not allowed to look into. But for now, he had yet to fire a gun.

The post came in big canvas sacks and was never distributed properly so that every time there would be a short hubbub of trading mail and ‘who is MacPherson, I have his letter.’

The most recent mail drop Snufkin came up empty-handed. He was disappointed, sure. But it was possible that his letter hadn’t arrived yet. He had no idea how far he was from Moominvalley, really. So he went back to his bunk to mope when he saw that there was one man, a habitual drunk, lying sideways on a table and reading loudly, “dear Snufkin. How are you? Your most recent letter almost seems like code to me. Everyone back home would greatly appreciate it if you included a short glossary of military terms for us to reference as we read. Happy new year! It’s quite snowy down here. Our back door was almost completely buried in a snowdrift, we had-”

“Give me that.”

The man looked up. “This yours?” His voice was shaky and slow, and it was clear his veins were more alcohol than blood.

Snufkin scowled down at him. “Yes, and I’d like it back.”

“You’re Snufkin?” The man asked, looking at him with a funny expression. Snufkin didn’t like it. 

“Yes, and _that’s my letter_.” 

“Strange name.”

Snufkin lunged forward and grabbed the letter from the man, tucking it safely in his breast pocket. “It’s none of your business whether it’s strange or not, and I’d appreciate it if you refrained from reading my mail in the future.”

The man leaned back on the table as if to sleep. He was a strange, lanky figure, with thick black hair and a nose that reminded Snufkin of his own. “I don’t care for any _correspondence_ with your six-and-twenty tootsie anyway. You can keep ‘er.”

Snufkin growled and turned away. 

He didn’t want to read his letter in the barracks. It just felt… public. Not that his letters with Moomin were private, or anything. He just like to read them alone.

He never got to be alone anymore.

It was suffocating. Every minute of the day was crowded with bodies. It bothered Snufkin to no end, constantly being around the noise and stink of it all. He couldn’t remember the last time he showered or brushed his teeth or, god, changed his underwear. He had just gotten so used to the smell of rotting men. 

The first bit of the letter was exactly as the man had read. But Snufkin read on about how beautiful the tree outside the window looked when covered in snow and when Too-Ticky came to visit. Moomin missed him, he could tell. 

And Snufkin missed him too.

Sitting with his boots in the mud as the men shouted in the barracks behind him, Snufkin would give anything to be sitting by the fire with his arms around Moomin, who would be wearing that lovely blue sweater. The ache that settled deep in his heart for his friend was nigh impossible to bear. 

When they set out again, Snufkin and others moved behind the trucks on foot, their packs strapped to their back and their feet bleeding in their shoes. When the trucks rumbled to a stop they weren’t in a dingy army camp or a cramped village. They were at the base of a range of mountains, and if you looked through the trees you could see a long mountain pass stretching out before them.

A gun was shoved into Snufkin’s hands and he knew.

 

~

 

_February 25, 1943_

_Cheerio._

_I’m ever so sorry to inform you that my days of peeling potatoes are over. Tell Little My I appreciated every spud that passed through my hands. But nonetheless I’ve been baptized by fire. The past week has been nothing less than absolute misery. We’re holed up in a mountain pass somewhere that I will not say, or I’m afraid the censors will get to me. We’ve beat back the enemy. I cannot fathom how, as looking all around me I see nothing but the evidence of complete destruction. The sailor I cleaned with all those times- I’m ashamed to have never learned his name- was killed. Shrapnel from the airstrike that won us the damned thing. Look at me, I’m swearing. I’ll be surprised if you can read this. I’m surprised I can even hold this pen straight. But it’s ours. We won, which I suppose is the whole reason we’re doing this. Just one battle under the belt, then on to the next one._

_I’m sorry, Moomin. I know you don’t want to hear about this._

_I encountered a girl a while back who she said she loved a man in uniform and didn’t care that I was a mudeater. I think she was trying to flatter me, but she sure missed the mark. It’s almost comical looking back on it. I felt bad for her, though. She said her boyfriend was off fighting. I think she was really just lonely. Luckily, I was saved from the mess of it all by another man stepping in and saying that she ‘didn’t want nothing from flyboy Snufkin here’ and wooed the lady for himself. I have yet to decipher what flyboy means outside of a piloting sense but I have a hunch that it’s nothing good. But the girl seemed happy enough without me, and I was more than happy to carry on my way without her. I keep your letters under my helmet, you know. It’s the safest place for them. I have yet to see a single man here throw away a letter from home. They all get stowed wherever they see fit, away from the mud and rain._

_Speaking of mud and rain, that’s all we’re getting. I know we’ve been going south because every new location is warmer than the last. I can almost imagine it’s like I’m on my old travels again, with a pack on my back. I don’t wish for snow, but I certainly would like a break from the mud. They tell us we’re going north soon. I don’t know where. I doubt they’ll tell us and if they do, I won’t be able to tell you._

_I’m getting tired of this, Moomin._

_When you write back, please write about happy things. I’m in desperate need. Has Sniff done anything silly? I bet he has. I bet he was afraid of a rat or something of the sort. There are lots of rats here. I always used to like rats, but I think my attitudes toward them might be beginning to worsen. The rats in Moominvalley were nice and nothing to be afraid of. How is Little My faring with the Land Girls? Please write back as soon as you get this letter, I don’t want to wait a day more than I have to to hear from you._

_I’ll see you soon, my friend._

_-Snufkin_

 

~

 

They did not go northwards. They stayed in that one place for months, winning and losing battles. 

Snufkin hated the anti-tank guns. He had always held a strong distaste for loud noises, and being assaulted by them from all sides was his own personal hell. Still, better to be behind the artillery than in front of it.

It wasn’t until mid-May that the news was broken to the troops they had won, that the Germans surrendered. 

For one heart-stopping moment Snufkin believed the war was over.

But he learned just as quickly that they secured only a sliver of the planet, that their pain and sacrifices were next to inconsequential. The operation was over and it was time to move out. 

They went north and stayed there, waiting for another mission. 

They stayed there for a long time. 

Snufkin went back to mopping floors. Nobody sang while they worked. 

With every day that passed Snufkin could feel the life begin to seep out of him, like sap from the big maple behind Moominhouse.

He got a letter from Moomin that included a picture of the family (and friends) all posing in their best for the annual midsummer party out on the bridge. Snufkin began to worry that the ink would rub off from how often he would run his fingers from face to face, scouring each new wrinkle and piece of clothing. There was a patch of flowers clumped by the bridge that Snufkin didn’t recognize. They looked wild, and probably had sprouted sometime during the spring. He couldn’t quite make them out in the dark black-and-white photo, but he made sure to remember to ask Moomin about them in his next letter.

Moomin looked older. 

Snufkin knew that logically, he had not been away for very long, but Moomin’s face seemed sturdier, longer. His eyes sat deep in his face, sunken into pits carved by sleepless nights. 

He had cut his hair.

Snufkin wished he could look in a mirror, not some warped piece of glass. He knew that he had grown a patchy, scraggly beard out of pure necessity. He knew that he had acquired scars aplenty, on any kind of exposed skin. 

He had brushed up on his French and had inadvertently learned choice phrases in Irish, the majority of which he would not repeat in polite company.

He had learned how to use a jackknife and how to dig a latrine, how to duck from enemy fire and how to shoot on command. 

Trying times required some sacrifices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wassup thank y'all for commenting it really makes my year  
> yeah again i know nothing about ww2 please tell me if you do know  
> a new character has been introduced... can you guess who it is? (probably)
> 
> Military Slang:  
> \- Jerrys: Germans  
> \- six and twenty tootsie: a girl you have sex with, basically  
> \- baptized by fire: to have been under enemy fire for the first time  
> \- mudeater: infantrymen  
> \- flyboy: effeminate, basically he's calling snufkin gay  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snorkmaiden gets upset.

It was a blisteringly hot day in Moominvalley.

It was, of course, late summer, and such weather would be normal for that time of year. But this was really something else. 

Little My sat on the porch, throwing ice cubes onto the stone path and watching them melt until Moominmamma told her to stop. 

Moomin, Little My, and Snorkmaiden all happened upon each other at the river, each with a bucket in their hands for filling with water. Moomin needed to water the plants, Snorkmaiden wanted to wash her hair, and heaven knows what Little My was up to. 

Little My filled her bucket to the brim and without hesitation, tossed it at Moomin.

The water was blessedly cool, and Moomin took a moment to stand there, a light shiver down his spine, the water dripping from his sopping hair down the back of his neck before taking his bucket and dumping the contents over My’s head. 

Then there were buckets splashed back and forth and pushings into the river and soon, everyone involved was thoroughly soaked. It was wonderful, the chill in Moomin’s bones and the heat on his skin. The laughter of his friends echoing through the valley. 

Little My ran off to finish whatever heinous act she had planned for the afternoon and Moomin and Snorkmaiden retreated to the front porch of Moominhouse to pit cherries.

They sat on the floor with their clothes sticking to their skin, their backs against the wall of the house. 

Snorkmaiden was telling a long, drawn out story, and Moomin was only half listening. 

A wave of guilt had washed over him, lodging in his gut. How dare he indulge in such childlike frivolities when Snufkin was out there, probably getting shot at? For all he knew, Snufkin could be dead as he sat there, poking at a cherry with a sewing needle. 

“And she said that she knew things were probably different out in the boondocks, but that she thought that I…”

Mamma was planning on making a cherry pie. It was Sniff’s birthday the next day, and they were going to have pie and eat it on the beach. 

Snufkin’s birthday was in a month. Less. 

Snufkin would be in some godforsaken pit on his birthday, eating army rations and hiding from enemy fire. Moomin’s stomach wrenched; he put down the bowl of cherries.

“Moomin, do you think I’m a tramp?”

Moomin snapped back to the present. “Huh? No! Of course not.”

“Well, don’t you think it’s a little scandalous for us to not be, you know, _officially_ going steady?” Snorkmaiden sighed dramatically. 

“Uh… I-”

“My friend said that in the city, it’s a very big deal.” 

That lurching feeling in his gut had jumped right into Moomin’s throat. He thought he might chuck up right there in the cherries.

“And I know it’s a little more relaxed here in the valley, but I still think it’s important to make our intentions with each other official.”

“Snorkmaiden…”

She sighed again. “I know you can need a little push sometimes, and that’s why I’m telling you this. But I believe that the man should make the first move, so I’ll let the matter rest until you’re ready.”

Moomin stood up. He needed to get as far away from this as possible. They were almost dating, weren’t they? What would be the difference in making it official? If Snufkin were here, he would know what to do. He would write to Snufkin. He would politely walk away and write to Snufkin and when he got the letter back, he would decide- “Snorkmaiden, I don’t want to date you.”

Oh, sweet mercy.

Snorkmaiden blinked. “Oh.”

“I just-”

“Well, why not?” She stood up too, straightening out her still dripping dress. 

Moomin swallowed the awful feeling in his throat. “I just… I don’t think I feel the way that you do.”

“We have been dating since we were children, Moomin.” Snorkmaiden’s voice quivered, and Moomin wasn’t sure what he would do if she began to cry. “What could possibly be wrong? Do you not want to be married? Is this what this is about? Because I’m willing to wait!” 

“It’s not that, it’s just-”

“I never should have brought it up. I’m sorry.” Snorkmaiden straightened up with a huff. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Snorkmaiden…” 

But she was gone down the path, her feet leaving a wet trail behind her. 

Moomin sat back down. What had he done? Snorkmaiden had been such a constant in his life. And now he had ruined it all. What would he do without Snorkmaiden _or_ Snufkin? The loneliness would be too much to bear.

Moomin brought the cherries in to Mamma and went up to his room, ignoring the stifling heat, and pulled his paper and pen from his desk drawer. 

_August 28, 1943_

_Dear Snufkin,_ he began. What on earth could he say that wouldn’t make him sound like a baby? Snufkin was going through something too terrible for words, and Moomin’s biggest issue was a spat with his friend. But there was no way around it. And besides, Snufkin always liked hearing about the little things going on in the valley.

_I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything with Snorkmaiden. Today, she asked me if we could officially go steady, and I told her flat-out that I didn't want to date her, like a crumb. She got upset, of course, and stormed off. I’m scared that I’ve ruined our entire friendship. She’s always so kind to everyone, and her being around always makes any situation brighter. She’s a wonderful friend, I just don’t know if I want to date her, much less marry her. Do you understand my predicament? She seems set on a future with me, moving away and settling down and marrying, with kids and a house and not a care in the world._

_It may sound strange, but when I picture my perfect future, I imagine a little house by the beach right here in Moominvalley. I would sit by the water in the summer and by the big fireplace in the winter and I would live there with you, Snufkin. Just us. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Of course, when you would go away in the winter, I would be ~~extrordinarily~~ extraordinarily lonely, but I could visit Mamma and Papa and all our friends. But can you imagine sitting on a little porch overlooking the ocean together, eating sweets and telling stories? And you would play your harmonica and maybe I would learn an instrument, too. I’ve always been fascinated by the banjo. We could be a regular musical duo. Can you imagine that? I can, very clearly. When you picture your perfect future, what is it like? I hope I am in it._

_In other issues, I don’t believe I am very good with children. Sniff’s little cousins are in town for his birthday (if you included a birthday greeting in your next letter, he would be more than thrilled. Of course, don’t tell him that I prompted you.) They’re very rowdy, and sometimes I have to watch them during the day, seeing as I still don’t have a job. It’s difficult to find work here because all the jobs are already filled up. I help run scrap metal drives with the Boy Scouts in the city, though. I wish I had been a Boy Scout, they seem to always have the most exciting adventures. Anyway, I have to watch them during the day sometimes. It’s near impossible to corral the little devils into one spot for mealtimes, so I usually let them take their sandwiches where they like and eat them where they choose. It’s much easier that way. I think I don’t have a firm enough hand, but I can’t bear to be strict with them. That’s not what summertime is for. In the winter, they will go back to school and have to obey rules all day, and I don’t want to be like a schoolmarm in the summer._

_In my perfect future, I would not have children. If that’s alright with you. I know you have a fondness for children._

_It will be your birthday very soon, and I know I will not be able to reach you in time, so I will give you an early birthday wish now. Happy birthday, Snufkin! Maybe by the time it is your birthday all this will be over and I can wish you a real happy birthday in person, as opposed to over letter. If not, know that I will be imagining making you a big, delicious birthday cake. It will be three layers of chocolate cake, full of unrationed sugar and butter, with thick frosting all over it, and chocolate shavings on top. I once saw a cake like that in a magazine, and I have not forgotten the look of it since._

_Please write back as soon as you can. I am really missing you, Snufkin. Really, truly missing you, more than I’ve ever missed anyone in my life, even my dead aunt who I was particularly fond of. The radio is not saying good things about when this will be over. Please tell me the news is different where you are. Please, please come back soon._

_Your friend for all of eternity._

_-Moomin._

 

~

 

_September 16, 1943_

_Cheerio._

_Moomin, if you are having lady troubles, I am not quite sure what you need my assistance for. You know I adore women as friends, but any kind of entanglement more than that is absolutely foreign to me. It seems you are in quite a pickle with Snorkmaiden. If you need help sorting it out, perhaps find Moominmamma and ask her what to do. My only idea is to be upfront with her about it, but that does not seem to be the best course of action in your situation. If you’re simply looking for a shoulder to cry on, may I suggest a pillow? I find it works wonders._

_I’m honored at being in your perfect future. Your future sounds delightful to me already, but I think my ideal future would be a little cabin in the woods, just a short walk from the beach (to satisfy the both of us) maybe with a tent set up in the yard if I’m in the mood for sleeping under the stars. Although after I get home from all this I’m not confident I will ever want to sleep in a tent again. There would be a big fireplace that would always be warm and a nice cozy bed covered in quilts. There would be a little stream running outside, where I could sit on the bank and fish. I think it would be quite lovely to live in Moominvalley. It would be splendid to live close to all of our friends, except maybe this Moominvalley would be a little less sleepy, so that we could meet new people as they came through._

_I’m sure the children will be just fine. So what if they’re a little wild? They’re children. Let them be as wild as they like. So long as they aren’t hurting anyone, let them eat their sandwiches in the meadow. I would give anything to eat a nice home-cooked lunch outside in that lovely flower field on the outskirts of town, do you remember? I think I would like to have some children in my perfect future, but I don’t think I would like to have them in the house. It would be much too noisy. Perhaps I could lead a scout troop of my own, although in my perfect future there would be no metal drives to run._

_Thank you for the birthday wishes. I doubt I will be home by next month._

_I saw a choir in one of the towns we passed through. It was a poor little town and everyone looked positively emaciated by the food shortages, but nonetheless there was a little group that sang hymns in the shell of what I believe used to be a church. It was beautiful. There were about ten women, and they sang with such fire in them. One of the women sang low notes that even I could not boast to sing. I wish you had been there. I don’t, though, because as they sang the military trucks drove by, almost drowning out the sound as they carried heaven knows how much ammunition through the town. It was heartbreaking. Everything about it was. I wish I could hear those women sing again, somewhere more peaceful, but the life of a soldier is such that I know I will never meet them again._

_Tell Sniff I wish him a happy birthday. Sniff, if you’re reading this, best wishes with your job at the post office. I hope you have a good year. By your next birthday I’m sure I will be home, eating cherry pie along with you._

_To all my friends, I’ll see you soon._

_-Snufkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas... is it gay to want to live in a cabin in the woods with your best friend for the rest of your life  
> poor snorkmaiden we really do live in a society huh  
> please comment i need it to get through finals
> 
> Military Slang: none!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snufkin gets a strange assignment.

“Private, a word?”

Sergeant Hodgkins was an austere man, with a bed of graying hair and a mustache that made Snufkin instinctively distrust him. He was not sure why. The older men swore up and down that he was a softie at heart, but Snufkin couldn’t help but be afraid of the man. 

And he was beckoning Snufkin over to the corner of the barracks with a very serious look in his eyes.

Snufkin hightailed it to where he was standing and shook his hand as prompted. “Yes, sir?”

“What’s your name, private?”

It was odd for a sergeant to not know the names of the troops under his care. But Snufkin made little note of himself; he didn’t blame anyone for allowing him to slip under the radar.

“Snufkin, sir.”

“Alright, Snufkin. I need you to do something for me.” 

A wave of uncertainty rushed through Snufkin’s bones. “Of course. What is it?”

Hodgkins grimaced. “Just a bit of babysitting.”

This was understandably confusing seeing as Snufkin was, as he was aware, one of the youngest troops there. There might have been one boy or two younger than him, but by no more than a month or two. 

“No doubt you’ve met Joxter by now, right?” Hodgkins said, pointing to the corner, where the aforementioned man was lying flat on the ground, warbling _La Vie En Rose_ , the melody rattling in his smoker’s lungs. 

Snufkin frowned, remembering the purloined letter. “I’m afraid so.”

Hodgkins rubbed his eyes as if clearing away a headache. “He’s been a pain in my ass since he got here, but he’s a good man. I’d like to keep him here.”

Snufkin didn’t respond, but the look of confusion was enough to prompt the sergeant into an explanation.

“You have quite a talent for staying out of trouble, Snufkin. Unlike a lot of these men, who tend to throw caution to the wind when given the chance. That’s why I’m coming to you.” He crossed his arms and looked down at Snufkin with a look that said, ‘can I trust you?’ 

Even Snufkin wasn’t sure if he could be trusted. 

“I’d like you to keep old Joxter out of trouble. Can you do that?”

Snufkin looked back over to the man, who had his arm up in the air, grabbing onto people’s hands as they passed him. “Yes, sir.”

Hodgkins nodded, pleased. “Good luck.”

 

~

 

_September 27, 1943_

_Cheerio._

_Lovely Moomin, something very odd has happened. I have been assigned a man to keep under my care (and protection, I suppose) by the sergeant. It’s troubling, especially considering I am one of the youngest in my regiment and the man I am assigned to protect is at least twice my age. The man is old Joxter, a drunkard with a nasty habit of stealing and reading my mail. (I believe he plans on reading every letter from you that passes through my hands. He also believes that you are a woman, so please refrain from writing about things like manual labor and pissing standing up in the future, if you would be so kind.) But he seems like a fine man, despite being a little loopy. He will join in on my cleaning duties and I am not very optimistic about his work ethic. But that’s alright, I have done well enough thus far without him. Oh, please don’t get in a tizzy about the woman thing. I believe it is the smart thing to do to let them believe what they will and not rock-_

“So you’re my new carekeeper, huh?”

Snufkin looked away from his letter to where a head had appeared over the side of his bunk. It was Joxter, his eyes glazed. Snufkin nodded curtly, ignoring the fact that ‘carekeeper’ was not a word. 

Joxter put his hand out over the mattress, where he had a wrinkled deck of cards tucked neatly in his grip. “Wanna play?”

Snufkin tucked the unfinished letter in his breast pocket and allowed old Joxter to climb up. “I only know rummy.”

Joxter began to shuffle the cards, and it was evident that one day, he would’ve been a masterful dealer, but his hands were shaking quite badly and the cards went falling out between his fingers. “Writin’ a letter to your sweetheart?” He said as he dealt. He spoke as if his tongue was too big for his mouth. 

Snufkin frowned. “Sure.”

“Whatcha write about?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“What’s her name?”

Snufkin sighed. Clearly the old man wasn’t planning on letting up anytime soon. “Moomin.” 

Joxter giggled to himself. “Funny name for a lass.”

Snufkin didn’t respond, he just picked up his hand and tried to figure out what to do with his cards.

“I knew a man named Moomin once,” Joxter said. “We adventured together.”

Snufkin hummed in acknowledgment. Joxter was just spitting bull, he knew that. When he got talking there was nothing stopping him, not even the truth.

“Me and him, oh, and Hodgkins, too.” 

Snufkin looked at him incredulously and laid down a four, five, and six.

Joxter flashed a lopsided grin and added his three. “And the Muddler. Shit, I never learned that fellow’s real name. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” He smiled at his cards. “We were thick as thieves.” He laughed again, the force of it making him double over coughing. 

Joxter won the game by a landslide. Their agreed prize was two cigarettes, and Snufkin handed them over dutifully. He was eager to get back to writing his letter, but Joxter didn’t move, instead leaned his head back so that he was draped over the foot of the bed, one arm dangling towards the floor, and closed his eyes as if to sleep right then and there. Snufkin rolled his eyes and retrieved his half-finished letter.

He liked writing the letters. The stream of consciousness… the ease of it all. It was a sweet catharsis to be able to write down all the thoughts and feelings he had bottled up all day- all month- and know that someone out there, across seas and rivers and thousands of miles of land, heard him. And more than that; they cared about what he had to say. 

Moomin cared about him.

It was that thought that carried him through most days. That he had someone back home missing him, caring about what happened. That if he died he would be missed.

It was lights out and Joxter was still curled up at the foot of his bed, his face resting in a pile of cards, his limbs spilling over the sides. Snufkin sighed and lay in fetal position over the covers, grateful to have a pillow, at least.

He slept restlessly. When he woke in the morning, old Joxter was gone, but Snufkin had a vivid memory of waking up in the suffocating darkness with tears on his cheeks and a comforting hand patting his head.

They were tasked with digging a new latrine. It was barely fall, and the ground was still soft with summer rain. Snufkin wouldn’t dare say it was easy work, but the shovels cut the soil easily, and the men finally seemed ready to sing again. 

Snufkin didn’t sing along. He knew the song- it was a popular song for vagabonds like himself, one he had learned over many a campfire. But it didn’t feel right to sing it here. The song was meant to be sung on the open road; it was a celebration of freedom. This place was the opposite of freedom. Snufkin had never felt more chained in than he did here.

He pretended he was digging a garden.

There was one summer where Moominmamma wanted a new vegetable garden, a raised bed. So Snufkin and Moomin double-dug a big garden and made a little wall out of rough wooden planks. It was a crude thing, but it held potatoes and carrots and leeks for years. They had dug a large ditch, large enough for the both of them to lay down in, and Moomin had joked it looked like they were digging a grave.

The thought made Snufkin’s stomach lurch.

So he kept his thoughts steadily on the way the summer sun felt, the smell of the fresh dirt, Moomin’s freckles that came and went with the seasons.

He wondered if Moomin had his freckles now.

And if he was gone, who would be there to count them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup i know this is a kind of short and bad chapter but whatever  
> it was my birthday yesterday haha 6/9 lmao  
> please comment i love them  
> yes i'm aware la vie en rose was written in 1945 i just like the song ok
> 
> Military Slang: none!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more letters are exchanged.

_October 12, 1943_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_I have to admit that your last letter made me laugh- that certainly does seem like an odd predicament! I hope you get along with Joxter and that your hardworking spirit rubs off on him. It’s strange- something about that name reminds me of something, though I don’t know what. I’m sure I’ll think of it._

_In other news, all is well with Snorkmaiden! We were able to figure it out between us and wouldn’t you know, I believe our breakup is giving her time to focus on herself for once. She has become very interested in personal fitness. She says a pageant winner on the radio says that outer beauty is like frosting on a cake- it is very nice, but if the cake is bad, you will soon tire of the frosting. Snorkmaiden has begun to jog up the stairs instead of walking up them. She says that beauty sleep is very important, and that she will break me of my habit of writing letters before bed. Although I don’t understand what I have to gain from beauty sleep. It’s not like you’re here to see me. It’s hard to keep up with her most days. She walks fast now and says it’s good for toned legs. I do not have toned legs. I think Snormaiden is trying to whip me into shape, so don’t be surprised if you come home and I have been transformed into a perfect model of physical fitness._

_I really miss you, my friend. I would say you couldn’t possibly understand but I have a feeling you do. At least I have all my friends and family here with me. I can’t imagine what it’s like being all alone, so far away. I’m very sorry for you. And me, and all of us. We all miss you. It’s almost like when you go away for the winter, but so much worse. Because you might never get home. Snufkin, promise me you’ll come home. I miss saying your name out loud, not just writing it down. As I write this, know that I am saying your name out loud, all alone in my bedroom. Snufkin, Snufkin, Snufkin. It’s a lovely name, and you should be proud of it. Would it make you sad if I said we don’t talk about you? That’s not quite true- we do mention you, but it hurts to talk about you too much. But we think about you plenty. I think about you almost every waking hour of the day. And I dream about you most nights, too. I like to dream about our perfect future. And when I have nightmares, I wake myself up and read your letters. I’ve pinned them up next to my bed so that I can read them whenever I want. All in a neat little row. Mamma was mad (as mad as she can be) at me putting the pinholes in the wall but I think she has a hard time being mad at anybody anymore. She hardly says anything when Little My says tasteless things or anything of the sort. I can’t wait until you get back. I feel as though I am close to bursting, I’m so full of missing you. Please come back soon, Snufkin._

_I didn’t mean to make this so grim. But it’s how I feel, and I think that’s what you want to hear. Not any of this fancy stuff about hard times. Just a nice letter talking about my feelings._

_It’s almost Halloween, and everyone is finishing up their harvests and preparing for the winter. Mamma is hosting a party, and we’re going to have bobbing for apples and carve pumpkins. The apples this season were fantastic. They were beautiful and red and they were very sweet. It was a little difficult to pick them all, as we didn’t have you to climb up and get the apples from the very top, but Papa brought out the big latter and we managed. Mamma is going to make apple jam. Mrs. Fillyjonk gave her the recipe because she said jam making was too messy for her nowadays. The winter will be wonderful, I’m sure. I just wish you could be here._

_Your friend until the seas run dry._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

They started to slowly move north. It got colder and the greenery changed. The trees turned to pine and the local people traded cotton clothes for wool. 

Snufkin never got a second to breathe. His days were full of work or fighting or old Joxter bugging him within an inch of his life. They transported goods across borders, just Snufkin and Joxter and a medic who Joxter affectionately called the Muddler, a nicked bottle of brandy tucked underneath the seat, and a couple dozen boxes of pineapples waiting to be detonated in the back. 

It was tense and awkward, and Snufkin’s hands were divided: one on the wheel, one trying to grab the booze away from Joxter. 

Snufkin had gotten enough letters that he seemed laden with them, one in his helmet, one in his breast pocket, one in his shoe- any possible dry spot was home to one of Moomin’s letters. And every night he took them out one by one, reading them over and making sure they hadn’t been smudged by the day’s activity.

There was one night they were camped out, where Snufkin was trying his best to write a letter that made any sense at all, and Joxter was spinning some long story about a flying boat one of his old friends built, clutching a half-full bottle of whisky to his chest like a lover. 

At one point Snufkin had had quite enough of that and had grabbed at the bottle, getting a hold of the neck and attempting to tug it from Joxter’s arms. “I think you should maybe save the rest for tomorrow,” Snufkin said.

“We need a little happiness in these hard times, my boy!” Joxter answered, his vice grip on the bottle surprisingly strong. 

Snufkin won and hid the bottle next to him, where he knew old Joxter would steal it back within the hour. “Don’t be cute.”

Joxter laughed, his wheezing, rattling, drawn out laugh. “Well aren’t you an Admiral of the Swiss Navy!” His inebriation made the words twist in his mouth, and they came out garbled and slurred. “You shouldn’t talk to your elders like that.”

Snufkin just rolled his eyes and went back to his letter. “Go to bed, you sack rat.”

And, blessedly, he did.

 

~

 

_December 20, 1943_

_Cheerio._

_We’re moving northward. I cannot say where. But I’m starting to miss my old clothes. They were so warm and nice. I miss my hat most of all. I really do love that hat. But it’s tucked away somewhere with the rest of my civvies, and I won’t wear it until I return to the valley._

_Sweet, dear, lovely Moomin. I really do miss you. Yes, I’m aware I talk about missing you in every letter and I do not plan to stop anytime soon. I saw a bird the other day, sitting on top of a fencepost. It was a dove, big and white and fat. Something about it reminded me of you. Maybe it was the dove being there at all, amongst all this insanity. But I thought of you, and the thought alone brought me joy enough to carry me through the day._

_I’m not one to go on and on about feelings and such. But I really do wish I were. I wish I could bring myself to wax poetic and send you a novel-length letter about how much I miss the valley. You know, it’s the smallest things I miss. Especially the food. I miss Moominmamma’s pancakes most of all. Those things are truly heaven, and I am eternally jealous that you get to eat them while I’m eating army chicken and canned cow. I hope that when I told you I wanted a feast a few letters ago you didn’t think I was joking. I’m not joking, Moomin. Tell your mother I expect a meal fit for a king when I return. And a nice warm bath._

_Is that tree by the bridge still there? You know the one. The one with the wonderful branches that are so nice to climb. Not that you ever could climb them, your little arms could never reach the next branch. I’m only joking, Moomin. It always was funny, though. I always felt like the king of the world, watching from the top of the tree as you tried to get up onto the first branch. I always did feel a little guilty, though. I could’ve helped you up. But I bet you could beat me in a tree-climbing contest any day now. You look so much taller in that picture you sent. I bet Moominmamma has been feeding you well. The reason why I am asking about the tree is because I had an awful dream last night that the tree had been struck down in a storm. I know it wasn’t real, but I couldn’t help but worry about that good old tree. We had so many fond memories in that tree, I would be heartbroken if anything ever happened to it. Please let me know the fate of the tree when you write back._

_I have to know. Will Moominmamma be able to make plum pudding this year with all the rationing? For the sake of everyone, I hope she is able to pull through. I miss her food during the holidays. That plum pudding was always my favorite. When you are married, your wife is NOT to get the recipe. That pudding recipe is being handed directly down to me, I hope you know that. I’m family enough._

_I’ll see you soon, my dove._

_-Snufkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas...  
> i might skip some time in the letters (that's why these skipped from october to december) bc i'm lazy but if you want to know what they talk about in the letters i don't include just think of something gay and it's probably close enough  
> yeah please comment it makes me very very happy
> 
> Military Slang:   
> \- pineapples: granades  
> \- admiral of the swiss navy: self-important person  
> \- sack rat: lazy person  
> \- civvies: civilian clothes  
> \- army chicken: franks and beans  
> \- canned cow: canned milk


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People are met.

Joxter was a singer. Not a good one, no- there was a thin line between a good singer and a bad one, and old Joxter walked that line like the drunkard he was. But he certainly had the enthusiasm, and he seemed to refuse any sort of quiet. 

It was infuriating to Snufkin, who liked to work in blessed silence. But Joxter had a neverending hymnal packed away in his brain and he refused to work without proper musical accompaniment. 

There were moments that Joxter slipped into sobriety, moments where the fog cleared from his eyes and he looked at Snufkin as though he was looking at a face from the past.

But at the moment he was walking alongside Snufkin with a stumble in his step, and he filled the dead air around them with his voice.

“ _Pack up your troubles in your kit bag and smile, smile, smile._ ” he sang. “ _While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag, smile boys, that’s the style…_ ”

Snufkin frowned down at the ground. He had never liked the song, especially not here. Not now.

“ _What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile-_ sing with me!” Joxter threw his arm around Snufkin’s shoulders. He pushed it off and shook his head firmly. Old Joxter seemed unperturbed. “ _So! Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile!_ ”

 

~

 

_January 12, 1944_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_Lovely, wonderful, dear Snufkin! It seems impossible that it is 1944 already. You have been away for almost two years. I cannot believe it. Two years. It seems unfair that this has been going on for more than two years at all. The holidays were wonderful. The snow was rather lackluster this year, although more might fall. I hope so. It looks quite dull here, all muddy and gray. But we had to cut down a tree that got rotten during the fall, so we had plenty of firewood to keep us all toasty and warm. Don’t worry, it wasn’t the tree by the bridge. It’s strong, and I bet that when you return, it will be exactly as it was when you left._

_Yes, Mamma was able to make the plum pudding. She wasn’t able to use as much sugar, so it was a little more tart than usual. But it was still lovely. I told her your request and she promised that you would absolutely get the recipe, and that my future wife will just have to ask you if she ever wants to make it. I think that’s a good plan, don’t you?_

_I think we might get a cow. Mamma and Papa have been discussing buying a nice Jersey cow from our friends a few towns over. They’re moving to the city and have nowhere to put the cow. So we said that we would be willing to take the cow and they could visit it whenever they wanted. That means that Papa and I will have to build a barn once the snow melts, but I don’t mind. I’ve never built a barn before, so it’ll be something new. When you get back, maybe there will be a new member of the Moomin family! What do you think we should name it? It already has a name, of course, but just in case it’s a bad name, I think it would be smart to have a backup name._

_Snufkin, you will never know the thrill that nickname gave me. How wonderful! It seems so childish, making nicknames for each other, but I love it all the more for that. Although I don’t believe I could call you anything other than Snufkin. It’s such a lovely name already. But you’re my Snufkin, and I think that is just right._

_Your friend for the rest of time._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

Snufkin found Joxter sitting slumped on a dusty old bench, tucked away in a remote corner of the village they were occupying for the day. His initial thought was that he had drunk himself into a stupor, but when Joxter lifted his head, his eyes were clear and red from crying.

“My word, I never thought I’d live to see a sober Joxter,” Snufkin said, too lightly for the situation.

Joxter lifted a stub of a cigarette to his mouth. “Me neither.”

Snufkin sat down next to the man. “Are you… alright?”

“Don’t worry about it, nature boy.” 

Snufkin frowned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Ah, yes.” Joxter said, a watery grin creeping across his face. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “little Snufkin from the mill.”

Snufkin felt his blood run cold. For on the inside brim of his hat, the old one neatly tucked away, was written that very phrase. Snufkin From The Mill. In a loopy cursive, like a nametag. When he was a child at the orphanage he had asked how they knew his name if they had found him without parents, and the matron simply had showed him the inside of the hat, far too big for him to wear. “How did you know that?”

Joxter just pulled Snufkin into a deep, tight embrace. “My son,” he murmured into Snufkin’s hair. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

All the puzzle pieces that had been scattered on the table fell into place all at once. All the similarities, their matching noses and elongated ring fingers, the affectionate pet names Joxter harbored for Snufkin. All the ‘my boy’s and misled paternal advice. 

Snufkin fell into his father’s embrace. 

 

~

 

_February 10, 1944_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_Things are interesting back home. We rescued a cat the other night. He came to our house and seemed to take a shine to Little My. We think he had gotten into a fight with another cat, because he was very hurt. But we’re nursing him back to health, and Little My seems set on keeping him. She says that he’s the only creature that understands her, and I’m inclined to believe her as the cat has the most awful temperament of any cat in the world. But he’s the sweetest to My. We’ve named him Rusty on account of his fur color. I’m not sure if he’ll stay once he’s well, but you never can control those kinds of things, can you?_

_I have a feeling it will be a warm year. There hasn’t been much snow at all. It’s disappointing, but not the end of the world. What’s the weather like where you are? I hope for your sake it’s mild and splendid._

_I have exciting news! Sniff found a banjo in his aunt’s attic and he said he would give it to me! It’s quite old and banged up, but Papa said he would probably be able to fix it and then I could play it. As soon as it’s fixed I’m going to start to learn how to play. Remember when I said that I wanted to play the banjo? When you get back, I will be a banjo master and we can play music together. I cannot wait to hear your harmonica again. I still carry it with me wherever I go. It does seem very sad though, not having been played for so long. When you get back, know that I will make you play and sing as many songs as you know until I am satisfied._

_I know it’s no use telling you how much I miss you. You already know. So I will let you fill in the blanks and just remember that there are people back home missing you and wishing you well._

_Your friend until the stars fall from the sky._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

Joxter didn’t drink as much.

It was something about that night in that dusty town that changed something in the man.

Granted, he was far from a picture of sobriety and poise. But progress was progress.

They were in an old city, one with crowded brownstones whose walls stood shoulder to shoulder austerely over the streets. It was, for the most part, empty; there were no cars in the streets, there were few lights in the windows. Children didn’t play, and heaven knows no one was making a racket.

Joxter kept craning his neck to and fro, looking down alleys and squinting into third-floor windows. Snufkin tried to not focus on it too much. 

But he was fidgety and nervous, and the anxiety radiating from the man only increased as the sun went down.

“Is something the matter?” Snufkin eventually asked, after Joxter had stopped and examined the house number of a fourth building. 

Joxter didn’t take much notice of the question.

Snufkin looked down at his watch, a secondhand thing he had bought in a small shop a while ago out of pure necessity. “If we head back now, perhaps we-”

“She lived here,” Joxter said quietly.

“Pardon?”

But before he could even form a cohesive thought Joxter was gone, bolting down the crumbling stone streets at a speed Snufkin didn’t know was possible. His steady footfalls, the determination in his flight- it was all so unusual that Snufkin had half a mind to think the man possessed. 

Joxter turned a corner and slowed, allowing Snufkin to catch up and catch his breath. “Goodness! What’s gotten into you?”

But old Joxter’s eyes were fixed on an old brownstone, the windows filled with yellow light. “She’s still here…” he muttered. Snufkin followed his eyes to the lowest window, where the curtains had been pulled open, revealing a demure parlor, the lamplight illuminating a woman standing in the middle of the room, smoking a cigarette. 

“Who?”

Snufkin turned away from the window to meet his father’s absent look, a look of absolute admiration and wonder. “Mymble.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

Joxter gripped Snufkin’s shoulders. “Your mother,” he said. Snufkin felt goosebumps rise on the skin of his arms. “She… she’s the most remarkable woman. And- and she lives here!” He looked back at the house. “Smile wide!” And he lifted a shaking hand and knocked three times on the old oak door, the paint long peeled away.

The woman made her way to the door with considerable fuss; she swore loudly and it sounded as though a vase shattered inside. But she opened the door, her face set into one of utmost annoyance. “Who on god’s green earth would knock at this ungodly hour of- of…” 

Joxter seemed to melt before her, and in a voice no more than a child’s, murmured only the word, “Mymble.”

And the door was shut just as quickly as it opened.

Snufkin coughed into his hand. “Is she going to open the door again, or…”

“It’s a mystery,” Joxter breathed.

But the mystery was resolved by a door slowly creaking open, revealing the bashful face of the very same Mymble. 

“It seems as though luck is in our favor tonight!” Joxter said with a grin.

Mymble flung open the door and threw her arms around him. Joxter quickly fell into the embrace, and the two stayed like that for a while, laughing and exchanging pet names on the cold of the stoop.

Snufkin just stood there, at a loss for what to do. But the silence of the exchange was broken by a young, “mama?”

In the open doorway was a small army of children, all between the ages of three and ten. They buzzed with the din that followed young children, and they all were dressed in smart little nightgowns, their eyes bleary from sleep. Mymble broke from the embrace and knelt to meet the frontmost child. “Yes, dear?” She asked gently. 

“Why were you yelling?” 

Mymble ruffled the child’s hair, the same fiery red as the rest of them. “Nothing that concerns you, dear. I think you all had ought to be getting to bed.”

Something about the sweetness of her voice stirred something in Snufkin’s chest, a stone that settled deep and nestled into his gut with a sharp ache. All the children, with their matching hair and nightgowns and motherly care. And then there was Snufkin, with his father’s nose and his mother’s mouth and the matron from the orphanage who was too old and deaf to do much more than embroider pincushions. 

The kids all went padding off upstairs in their socked feet and Mymble straightened up, looking on fondly as they scampered away.

“I see you’ve been busy,” Joxter said. Then he leaned over her shoulder and whispered something in her ear in a low voice that made Mymble flush and laugh, pushing the man away playfully.

“Wine!” She said suddenly. “Would you two be interested in some wine?”

“Hell yes!” 

“Joxter!” Snufkin snapped. And then, softer, “watch your language.”

Mymble chuckled. “And who is this dear creature?”

“This,” Joxter said, pushing him forward, “is your son, Snufkin.”

All mirth dropped from Mymble’s face as she took his hands in her own. “Snufkin?”

All he could do was nod.

Mymble brought Snufkin into that same all-encompassing embrace, swallowing him in the fabric of her dressing gown. “Oh, dear Snufkin,” she said softly, her voice just tickling his ear with that same maternal tenderness. “My lovely little Snufkin from the mill. I’m so sorry.”

Then they separated and Mymble clapped her hands together once, inviting them in with a promise of coffee and cake. 

Joxter and Snufkin sat in the parlor, on opposite sofas. Snufkin’s leg refused to quit bouncing up and down, rattling the lamps on the tables.

And in the adjoining kitchen they could hear the pouring of the coffee and Mymble’s voice drifting in: “ _What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile. So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok basically they used to live in a mill and for whatever reason mymble had to give up snufkin and then she moved to the city and could support her army of kiddos  
> the song is Pack Up Your Troubles (In Your Old Kit Bag)  
> tomorrow is my last day of finals!! youpi
> 
> Military Slang:  
> \- Lucifer: a brand of cigarettes


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More letters.

_March 11, 1944_

_Cheerio._

_Things have calmed over here. It’s a lot of walking. I believe we’re getting ready to do something big, something I dare not speculate about. Ignorance is bliss, I suppose. Thank goodness it’s starting to be spring. Going northward in the winter is unbearable if I know I’m not returning to the valley. But it’s beginning to warm, so I’m saved the pain._

_I met a man the other day, on leave from the Navy. I’ve met more sailors as of late because of our proximity to the ocean. He played a guitar outside of a small shop and I sat with him and listened to his music. He sang old songs and had a certain way of plucking the strings that made me think of you and your banjo, Moomin. But he was very kind and bought me a coffee. It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper coffee, not this rationed stuff. Like that song- a proper cup of coffee in a proper copper coffee pot. I don’t think I got it quite right, but it doesn’t matter. You know what I mean. He said to call him Danny Boy, that that’s what everyone called him. I think of all my experiences here I would like to remember Danny Boy most of all._

_I think sailors are some of my favorite people. They have a wonderful fighting spirit about them, I believe. And I’m weak for a good shanty. I think it is an absolute crime that I haven’t met many sailors these two years, just the folks like me. And by ‘like me’ I mean folks that cannot sail boats or fly planes and are stuck in the infantry with the others. Other than that, I can’t find many similarities between me and the other men. I suppose that’s cruel of me to say. We’re all supposed to be one big family, but I can’t help but feel as though I stick out like a sore thumb. Stuck with all these men I feel younger than I ever have. Maybe it’s my scrawniness, but I don’t quite think so. I don’t think it is my age, either, though I am one of the youngest. There are plenty of men here old enough to be my father. It’s just something about Me that makes me feel awfully young. There’s a strong culture of sex here, and I don’t like it. It seems every time we have any down time, half the men leave to go visit the women closest to us. (I use the term ‘visit’ loosely and politely). There’s even a term for a man who has slept with the same woman you have- a “belly cousin.” Isn’t that dreadful? I suppose I’m making a mountain out of a molehill but it all does make me feel terribly juvenile._

_I don’t expect you to understand, just to read this and not think I’m crazy. That’s all I want._

_I think I’m going crazy. I don’t think I was cut out for this. ~~My~~ ~~It’s~~ ~~It feels as though there are~~ My brain is full of moths and I don’t think I would bleed if I were hurt. My heart beats too fast all the time. Moomin, I don’t want to be crazy. I want to be healthy and normal. I don’t smoke anymore. The cigarettes make my hands shake ~~more than they already do~~. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that when I get home. I know you always hated my pipe. Please write back soon and tell me that everything will be alright. I know it will. I just need someone to tell me. _

_I’ll see you soon, my dove._

_-Snufkin_

 

~

 

_April 3, 1944_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_I find myself in the curious position of having to comfort you from very far away. And I have never had to do that before, so if I’m bad at it, I apologize. Just know that what I say comes from the heart. Read this very carefully, Snufkin. You are not crazy. You are normal and amazing and I’m sure everyone feels exactly the same way you do. I think, when you first left, that anyone would think I was crazy, sitting up in my room all day and waiting for you to come back. I think times like these make people act in ways they wouldn’t. Listen, Snufkin, I don’t think I could possibly tell you how dear you are to me. Even if you come back to the valley an insane, babbling mess you would still be my best friend in the entire world. You have and always will hold a very special place in my heart and nothing on this earth could possibly change that._

_I know there is nothing I can do to help you. You are beyond my influence and it hurts to know that but I know it’s true. So I will tell you all about what will happen when you return to the valley._

_When you return, some spring day, you will come walking across the bridge like you always do. Except you won’t have your harmonica to signal your arrival, so I will be waiting for you on the porch. I will run down to meet you and we’ll meet halfway along the path and I will hold you for however long I please. Then, we will go into the house where Mamma will have prepared a big feast for your return and we will all eat it as a big group of friends and family. I don’t know what will happen after that, but I’m sure it will be wonderful. Maybe we’ll play a game of cards or go on a walk through the forest. But I promise that I’ll be there when you get back and that you won’t have to be alone or sad any longer._

_It feels silly to write a letter and not talk about the little things in the valley. But not much has happened, and I believe this is much more important. But I’ll tell you that there’s a big growth of gorse by the river, and it’s choking out all the other plants. You can’t even see the ground through the flowers, it’s like a thick yellow carpet but the bushes come up to my waist. It would be very annoying if it weren’t so beautiful. I can’t wait to see you again._

_Your friend for the rest of time._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

_May 2, 1944_

_Cheerio._

_I don’t intend to frighten you, Moomin, but how can I begin to describe the complete terror I have lived through? I doubt I can. Besides, I have heard rumors that we will be at true legal risk if we dare tell anyone. But I have never been one for rules and I believe that if I do not tell anyone I will simply explode. I write this out knowing it will be censored beyond comprehension but at least I will have the satisfaction of writing it down, perhaps I will feel a little closure._

_A few days ago we engaged in what I believe was a [REDACTED]. They told us nothing. [REDACTED] I had been to before, years ago on my travels. But it [REDACTED] all sorts of barbed wire and concrete blocks, most likely to make it seem [REDACTED]. It was a beautiful place once, but I will never return there again. On the day we [REDACTED] it seemed as if everything would go alright but [REDACTED], and there was a horrendous noise and the sound of crunching metal and dust everywhere. [REDACTED] and I was only able to survive by jumping into the water. The water was covered in leaking oil from [REDACTED], and the oil had caught fire, making the water seem like the pits of hell, if I am allowed to be dramatic. I obtained a rather nasty burn on my arm, but I suppose I am lucky, all things considered. I am eternally thankful for my swimming skill or I would have drowned in an instant. [REDACTED] and I could look out on the water and [REDACTED] and all I could think was thank god it’s not me._

_I believe we’re [REDACTED]. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think this whole thing was a suicide mission, but isn’t this all any of this is? I wasn’t drafted with the intention of surviving. But I plan on coming home to you, Moomin. And all of my friends. I am going to come back home. And we will laugh and tell stories and eat good food. I’ve been missing my harmonica. I can’t wait to play it again. You will play me your banjo and I will sing to you the songs I’ve learned. Please wait for me._

_I’ll see you soon, my dove._

_-Snufkin_

 

~

 

_May 30, 1944_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_How absolutely dreadful! I say this from a place of ignorance as you were right, half the letter was completely blacked out. But they saved the most gruesome parts for me. I hope your arm heals quickly. Burns can be tricky things, especially if you don’t have the right tools to deal with them. Mamma says to run it under cool water or to wet a cloth in cold water and to put it over the burn. She also said honey works wonders, but I doubt you will be able to find honey wherever you are. Oh, my dear Snufkin, I wish you would let me worry about you. I know you have no power over whether I worry or not but I do feel bad when I fret about you because I know you don’t want that of me. But I’m allowed to be worried now, I think. You have given me a good reason to worry about you. I have always been concerned for your safety but I am more scared than ever, and I hope me saying that doesn’t stress you. Please, stay safe as much as possible. I know they are throwing you at danger at every opportunity but I beg of you, stay out of the way and behind a heavy wall. I don’t care if people think you are a coward, you will be a coward who comes home alive and whole at the end of the day._

_Snufkin, I believe I am growing to resent these letters. Not that I don’t like hearing from you- that is a joy I would never give up- but I hate the act of writing letters instead of talking like real people. I find myself forgetting the direction your mouth twitches when you tell a story and the cadence of your voice. It’s the little things that make missing you so difficult. If I could remember them, it would be as if you never left._

_I once knew a man who lived far away from his fiancee during their engagement and that they would write letters back and forth all the time. The only thing was that she would refuse to write a love letter unless she had the right pen- not too nubbly or scratchy or anything like that- but when she did, she could write toe to toe with Shakespeare. He said he could always tell what kind of letter it would be and what kind of pen she had found based on the thickness of the envelope._

_Are you disappointed you don’t get any love letters? I know that all I hear about on the radio is soldiers getting letters from sweethearts at home, not plain old friends. I feel as though I’m depriving you of love letters. Well, it isn’t as though you have anyone to write them for you, but you know I’ve never been the rational one between the two of us. I suppose I could try to write you love letters, but I don’t think they would be very good. I know you hate actions that aren’t in earnest and I doubt you’d appreciate what I believe to be quality love letter writing skills. But this isn’t about my ego, it’s about you and I know you better than I know myself sometimes, and I know that you’re just dandy with my silly little letters._

_Your dear friend forever and always._

_-Moomin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snufkin's not doing so hot  
> Also! the thing in the censored letter is real! if you are interested in "spoilers" google Operation Tiger... this is the most research I have ever done for a fic in my life haha  
> i wonder if moomin was jealous of danny boy (yes yes he was)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moomin comes to a realization.

Moomin kept a notebook in the front pocket of his overalls. It was a little blue book he had picked up from somewhere and a stubby pencil, and on the first page he kept a sloppy list of everything he remembered about Snufkin.

Little things. Just in case.

He would pull it out and scribble down whatever he had remembered whenever the memory struck. At breakfast that morning, he had hastily put down his fork and wrote down, “Snufkin has a notch on the top of his left ear.”

Snufkin had gotten a nasty sunburn on that ear years and years ago and when he hit it with a comb by accident, it ripped the tender skin away, leaving a gaping gash on the ridge of his ear. Snorkmaiden said his strangely shaped ear was just another thing that made him unique. He had worn a bandana to keep his hair away from the wound for a week after. He said the feeling of his hair made it burn.

Snufkin had always been so sensitive to things like that. Moomin wrote that down, too. 

He spoke German fluently and would interject choice phrases in conversations, just for the fun of it. He hadn’t done it in a long time, not since they were children. He had never really needed to know the language, he just thought the words felt nice in his mouth when he said them. Moomin had always thought the German was a gas, and when they were kids he would beg Snufkin to say naughty words in German so that he could swear around his parents without them knowing. Snufkin never agreed, but he would teach him strange phrases when they would sleep over at his house during bad weather and Moomin would say them over and over again until they stuck in his brain. 

And Mamma tried to teach both of them, when they were impressionable little boys, polite things in French. She said it would make them seem cultured. Snufkin said that he didn’t like making the R sound. Moomin always had an inkling that it was because he was so much better at it than Snufkin. 

Moomin had a dream that night so vivid it felt almost like a memory. Except he knew it wasn’t; there were little things out of place, little details that weren’t quite accurate.

In his dream, they were kids again, sitting on the porch of the house. Moomin knew in that way you know things in dreams that they had just been gardening. Judging by the thick layer of mud on Snufkin’s bare legs, though, it didn’t seem as though they were all too successful. Snufkin had in his hands a small book of 501 French Verbs and he was trying in vain to understand the conjugation of ‘obliger.’ Moomin was trying to explain the imparfait de l’indicatif but it didn’t seem to solidify in Snufkin’s mind, so he threw the book down on the ground and proclaimed the whole thing a waste.

“Don’t say such things,” Moomin chided. “Mamma says we will be sophisticated.”

“I don’t give a damn if I seem sophisticated!” Snufkin blurted. 

“Language,” Moomin chided (this was one of the key ways Moomin knew it was only a dream- had it been real life, and had Moomin swore as Dream Snufkin had, Moomin would have been strung up a pole and whipped). 

Then he took Snufkin’s hand in his own and in picture-perfect clarity Moomin could see every detail of his hand: the mud caked beneath his fingernails, the brown lines crossing this way and that across his knuckles from when dirt had found its way into the cuts made by the prickly stem of the squash plant, the freckles covered only by the little braided rope tied loosely around Snufkin’s wrist, a gift from Moomin.

Moomin awoke with the blankets tangled in a heap by his feet and a hot, feverish sweat enveloping his body.

From his nightstand he grabbed the little blue notebook and the stub pencil and with shaking hands opened to the second page where in large block letters he wrote the words, “I THINK I SHOULD LIKE TO KISS HIM.”

With that out of his head and down firmly on paper, Moomin was contented to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep for the rest of the night.

In the morning, Moomin woke up at 7:30 am so as to get to his job at the farm at nine. He dressed quickly and went downstairs for breakfast as he did every morning. They had toast with marmalade and Papa had coffee- they had agreed when the rationing started that the rest of them would only have coffee on special occasions. Moomin opened his notebook and wrote, “Snufkin takes his coffee black and his tea with two sugars.”

And through the thin, cheap paper he could see the message scrawled on the second page, clear as the rocks at the bottom of the river. Moomin stood up suddenly. “I’m feeling ill,” he said. “Please tell the farm I won’t be able to make it into work today.” 

Mamma looked concerned. “Would you like me to bring you some ginger tea?”

“No, no, I’ll be alright. I just- I think I ought to sleep it off.”

And he ran upstairs, stashing the notebook in a drawer and crawling under the comforting weight of his duvet. 

“I think I should like to kiss him,” he said, soft as a barn mouse.

 

~

 

_June 17, 1944_

_Cheerio._

_We have been told the eyes of the world are upon us, Moomin. I do not wish to write too heavily about what has happened. And I don’t wish to frighten you. Most are looking at it as a victory, and I suppose I can see it that way. But I knew some of the men who were killed, kind American soldiers who called me ‘son’ and told me about the dishes their mothers were making for them when they returned home. So I will not write about it and you can hear what you will on the radio. It’s all too tiring for me. I’m exhausted, Moomin. In many ways. I would like to lie down on a nice feather bed and sleep forever and ever, until this terrible tiredness lets go of my bones. I feel as though I am an engine that is running low on fuel, and if I break down someone will have to push me to wherever I need to go._

_Enough of this dreadfulness. How is the valley? I feel as though I haven’t heard from it in so long. I would be much obliged if our other friends would be willing to write to me themselves. I miss them, too. I do not know whether you show these letters to others (if you have, so be it, but I might regret some things I have written) but I would like to know if they miss me as well. How is Little My in the WLA? Is she still so little, or has the sun and hard work done her some good? I hear you have gotten a job at the farm. It seems fitting for you. You wouldn’t have to change your daily attire of overalls, anyway. I can imagine you in the fields, maybe manning a tractor. The Moomin household is positively overrun with farmers now, I suppose. How is Moominpapa faring? He never had the taste for the rougher things in life like that. If Moominpapa is reading this, I do not include adventuring as a rough thing. It can be quite clean if you play your cards right._

_Moomin, please read this aloud to everyone, possibly at supper sometime. Dear Moominvalley, hello! I miss you all so much. It is awfully lonely and there is nothing I would like more than to see all of you in person. I am surviving here, and I plan on surviving until this is over and I can come back home to you all. Little My, happy birthday. I know it was a few days ago. Of all my big sisters, you are by far the most wonderful. Yes, you are allowed to tell Mymble that. Your birthday present is bragging rights over the entire family. I will be home soon and I cannot wait a day more to see you all. Do not forget me, please. I do not plan on forgetting the valley anytime soon. (Stop reading here)_

_Hello again, Moomin. It’s just you and I once more. That’s what I’ve always liked the best, when it was just us two, going on adventures. Sure, I liked spending time with the others, but it was so much more special when it was just the two of us. When I get back, I would like to spend time with you most of all. Please don’t let me be crowded by all the others for too long, will you? If you must, enlist Little My to create a diversion. But I would like to get away with you and only you, so we can talk and share stories and enjoy each other’s presence._

_I’ll see you soon, my dove._

_-Snufkin_

 

~

 

_July 2, 1944_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_I hope you are doing alright. Yes, I have heard. I do hope this will be a turning point of sorts like they say on the radio and that you will be home with me soon. I think I should have lost my hopeful outlook on things but I refuse to be bitter like so many others. You will be home soon, I know it. I’m making plans for your return as I write this._

_I like my job at the farm. It’s a lot of weeding, mostly. There’s a nasty growth of lemon balm that keeps choking out the other herbs, but the good thing is that once it’s all cleared out, I can bring it home to Mamma for her to make tea out of. I was allowed to drive the tractor once, but then I ran over the lettuce and the head farmer decided I was better off on the ground. Papa has promised to teach me how to drive! I feel as though it’s very overdue. But better late than never, as they always say._

_The others greatly appreciated your little interlude. I read it out at breakfast, and Mamma cried. I don’t cry much anymore, I think I used up all my tears at the beginning. Not to say that I’ve moved on, but I’ve adjusted. I’ve contented myself to writing to you. I think it’s harder for the others because they aren’t in contact with you like I am. And no, I do not share our letters._

_All is well on the homefront. We’re keeping the home fires burning, as they say. Well, not so much now. It’s terribly hot this summer and we can barely stand to light the stove to boil our tea. Little My is doing well. Her skin has gotten used to being outdoors so much and she’s wonderfully tan, but I still just get burned. I look like a beet, round and red all over. Mamma doesn’t like the WLA because My keeps getting gasoline on her uniform from the tractors, and she can’t wash it every day, but it does stink up the house something awful._

_Sniff let us borrow his camera to take pictures for you. We all took a few and chose our favorites to send. I hope you enjoy them._

_Please come home soon. There are ever so many things that I want to tell you that simply cannot be said in a letter._

_Your friend for as long as the earth turns._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

When Snufkin’s letter arrived, it was abnormally thick, much larger than the rest of the letters in the pile.

For one moment, his heart foolishly in his throat, Snufkin remembered the story of the couple whose love letters would be solely sent in overstuffed envelopes. But when he ripped the top off to examine the contents, a handful of small pictures fell out. Snufkin read the letter first, and when he reached Moomin’s note about the pictures, he picked them up to look at them one by one. 

The pictures were of people. Mainly of friends. 

There were some that were obviously staged: one of Little My, posing with her hands on her hips in her uniform. There was one of Moominmamma and Moominpapa at the table, leaning into the frame and grinning at the camera. 

The others were more candid. One of Snorkmaiden with a paintbrush in her hand and a smear of paint across her forehead, standing on a ladder in front of a half-painted wall. Snufkin could guess from the surroundings that they were repainting the barn, not the house. He was relieved about that; he’d always thought the house was such a lovely shade of blue. 

There was a picture of Little My and Sniff standing in a field, incognizant of the camera, both pointing up at the sky. On the back, in Moomin’s handwriting, was written “METEOR SHOWER 6/29/44.”

Snufkin was sad to have missed a meteor shower.

There was a picture of the town, where a great group of people had gathered altogether, waving flags and drinking. On the back was written “MOOMINVALLEY ANNUAL WARTIME PARADE 6/22/44.” Snufkin had no idea that there was an annual parade, and the thought of it made him laugh in spite of himself. Anything to raise spirits, that was certainly the overwhelming message of the era. 

The last picture was the best. It was blurry, unlike the rest of them, and looked as if it had been shot on an absolute whim. 

The picture was of Moomin sitting on the porch, caught in a wonderful second mid-laugh. Snufkin’s breath caught in his throat when he saw it, though he didn’t quite know why. He had an inkling Snorkmaiden took it, for even though Moomin was laughing ridiculously and his hair was messy and he was wearing ratty work clothes it was shot with the care to make him look _beautiful_.

Snufkin held that picture close to his chest and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha this was uploaded from my phone so sorry if there are formatting issues  
> So how about them d-day huh?   
> Please comment i am in the boondocks of new hampshire rn with nothing to do   
> Alternate summary for the chapter: Moomin comes to a realization (Snufkin’s still gettin’ there)  
> Military slang: none lol


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some truths come out.

_July 30, 1944_

_Cheerio._

_It is strange to say but I think I miss you now more than ever, Moomin. We are situated by water and I am surrounded by beauty every day. For a long time I believed there could be no beauty in a time such as this but I have been proclaimed wrong by the artistry of nature like I always am. I miss you most, I think, at sunset. During the doldrums, when the golden hour comes and the sun peeks from behind the clouds. I think of you then, and I can’t bear to see it all without you. I used to think I would never wax poetic in these letters but look at me now, a regular Shakespeare. I never really liked Shakespeare. The mixture of flowery language and crude jokes never quite sat well with me. But I always love when people quote his work, because those quotes always come out when normal words don’t do the trick. Do you understand what I mean?_

_I remember when we put on a performance of Romeo and Juliet all those years ago. I can’t imagine what Moominmamma and Moominpapa had to sit through, a bunch of children on a stage made out of hay bales. I remember Snorkmaiden was so firm on being Juliet. It was silly, there were so few of us involved that we all had to play multiple parts but not Snorkmaiden, she had her part and she was happy with that. And she made you be Romeo. What a Romeo you made! I still remember you in Moominpapa’s coat, pretending to poison yourself with an empty milk bottle. I can picture it now, and the other men are wondering why I am laughing as I write this. I especially remember how mad Snorkmaiden got whenever you practiced your lines with me. When equipped with the Bard’s words, anyone could tell you had the talent to become a wooing master, myself included. It was just when it came to your own words that all that talent vanished into thin air. Ah, I like you all the better for it. There’s no use in having a friend be a wooing master, otherwise they would be off wooing ladies left and right when they were supposed to go fishing. You never neglected our fishing trips, and I commend you for it. It is a shame that you are so hopeless in wooing, though. Otherwise you might’ve had a hope of being married by now. But no matter._

_They say on the radio how important letters are for morale and I am inclined to agree. There is nothing that lifts my spirits quite like a letter from you, my dear, wonderful Moomin. I have made friends here, sure, but I have never and will never find another friend as dear as you._

_I would like to say ‘enough of this misery, how is the valley?’ but every time it’s the same, and I’d rather reminisce. Remember the sea monster? Or should I say the ‘sea monster?’ If I remember correctly, it turned out to be a shark. But I remember how we staked out on the shore for three nights straight waiting for the monster to show itself. I remember we slept in tents and Snorkmaiden wanted you to sleep in the tent with her, but somehow you figured it out so you could sleep in my tent with me. I look back on that memory fondly, Moomin. We had so much fun, cracking jokes and telling stories until the wee hours of the morning. Or should I say afternoon, given that we only slept during the day? Do you remember that adventure? I think it will always be one of my favorites._

_I think I will be able to sleep well after writing this letter. Escaping into the past has given me a newfound satisfaction that I hope will sustain me until your next letter._

_I’ll see you soon, my dove._

_-Snufkin_

 

~

 

Old Joxter was not a patient man. He preferred, if the choice was presented before him, to have things handed to him, not worked for. In his eyes, there was no greater sin than delayed gratification. 

This was why, in situations where an issue might need a little combing through, old Joxter preferred to take a nap instead.

Such was the case as Snufkin went through his nightly tradition of re-reading his letters. Joxter did not partake, for nobody cared to write him letters. Instead, he curled up in the corner of their tent, cat-like, and tried to sleep. 

It was, however, quite difficult to sleep when Snufkin insisted on muttering constantly to himself as he did now.

“Joxter,” he said at last. “May I… speak to you? I don’t need a response, I’d just like to speak my mind.”

Joxter allowed this by slowly opening one eye, then closing it again once he realized his son’s conversation was going to be mainly focused on a sheaf of pictures in his hands. 

“Is there someone back home that you miss very much?”

This was not a rhetorical question, Joxter realized. “I suppose.”

“But someone that you miss so very, very much that it seems impossible to go on without them.” He took a breath. “There is someone at home who I find myself missing every moment of the day. Especially when I see something wonderful, like a sunset. Or a very tall tree. And I miss them with my whole heart, so much so that even when I don’t think of them, there’s still an ache in my chest from the muscle memory of missing hi-them.”

Old Joxter nodded lazily.

“I don’t know how long I can keep on missing them like this. I think if I don’t see them soon I’ll simply die from wanting to.”

“I know your problem,” Joxter said.

“Oh?”

“I believe that is love, my boy.”

 

~

 

_August 11, 1944_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_I wholeheartedly understand. However, I don’t think I can claim truthfully that I miss you now more than I have in the past. I think my heart is been solely occupied with missing you from the moment the train left the station and never wavering. It is tiring, missing someone so much. You don’t have room for other things. Snorkmaiden gave me a lovely painting to hang on my wall but I couldn’t because it was all full with letters from you. I still pin them up, you know. I’ve created a whole new wallpaper. We made jam a few days ago and I hope it won’t disturb you to hear that I have been squirreling away cans of preserves and tins of cookies for your return. I know it is irrational, but it makes me feel as though I am doing something._

_I hardly feel like I am contributing to the greater efforts. I suppose my job at the farm helps some, but it’s not a righteous undertaking like with the WLA, who work so hard all for the good of the people. For me, it’s simply a job to get me out of the house so that I don’t fall back into melancholy._

_It’s harder in the summers. In the winter, I can pretend you’re gone away temporarily and that can usually carry me through. It does hurt so when you don’t return for spring. But the summer is the worst, because that’s when we should be going on adventures and moonlight swims in the ocean and hiking trips up the Lonely Mountains. We’re still so young, and we deserve to be doing young people things._

_Snorkmaiden has found a beau! Don’t worry, it’s not me. That ship has sailed. He’s a man from the city and I can’t help but analyze him with the eye of a brother, but I must say that he really is a fine man. He’s kind and hardworking. A writer, too. He’s polite to Mamma and even puts up with My, if you can believe it. Anyone who can handle her is a keeper in my book. She always talks about him and it seems every time I see her she’s making a new dress to go off to some party or dinner date. I don’t understand why she can’t re-wear a dress, but I suppose being a man I’ll never know. I once discussed dating with Little My and she said not only is she content with being a spinster, but that she plans on it! I suppose I can’t be too surprised, she doesn’t strike me as the type to be tied down by a man._

_You must be bored out of your mind with all this talk of dating. But there’s romance afoot in the valley, and I find it my duty to report all goings-on for your personal benefit. So you’re welcome._

_Ever since my misadventure with Snorkmaiden, I’ve found myself more and more disinterested with the idea of dating. I think I would like to marry and have someone to love, but I don’t want to date now. I feel like my heart is too busy missing you. Everything would be easier if I could just date you, Snufkin. There would be no drama or new dresses, we would just be able to go fishing and hiking as much as we pleased. Although I suppose that’s what we already do. But at least if I were dating you nobody would nag me about finding a girlfriend._

_Enough. I’m being silly, and that’s the last thing you need. My next letter will be far more normal, I promise._

_Your dearest friend until the winds won’t blow._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

_September 17, 1944_

_Cheerio._

_I’m sorry for this late letter and for worrying you, I’m sure. Everything is fine here, I’ve just had my own issues to sort through before I could write you back._

_I’m still in the thick of it here. There’s little time for rest between activities, it’s simply move along and lick your wounds on the way. We are doing well, I think. From what I hear the tide may be turning in our favor. I say this under the assumption you won’t get your hopes up and start making my bed as soon as you get this letter, for I do believe we’re bound to be here for a while more._

_I’m happy to hear about Snorkmaiden. Tell her I wish her the best for her and her lover. Tell her also that she is welcome to borrow Moominmamma’s plum pudding recipe from me anytime she likes._

_I do now more than ever think I am going crazy. And I don’t want you to dispute it because I know it’s true. But I have finally found the root of my insanity, and if I don’t tell you it will eat me from the inside out. There is the obligatory shell shock that you will have to sort through when I come home, I’m sure- that is, if you accept me back into your life when I return. I am writing in this letter the most important detail of my life. I believe if it is not received it will be the death of me. It’s a great toothed creature that gnaws at my gut even now as I write this._

_Moomin, I do believe I have fallen madly in love with you. Deeply, properly in love. And I know it’s twisted to love you like this but I can’t do a thing to change it now that the creature has found its home in the pit of my stomach. I understand that is unfair of me to heap this on you, when I’m so far away that you couldn’t even slap me if you wanted to. I write this knowing that you very well may shut me out when I return, and I understand if that’s the case. Please do not worry for me if you choose to turn me away. I have found places and people over these years that I can run to if need be, and you of all people know I am capable of surviving on my own. But if you choose to let me back in, know that this is the unchangeable truth._

_If I could I would spend my whole life adoring you, Moomin. But I understand if it cannot be._

_-Snufkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is getting spicey!  
> Happy Fourth of July to my American friends as long as you’re not trump supporters  
> Happy normal Thursday to everyone else  
> Please comment :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A response.

The whole of the valley was beginning to worry about Moomin.

The boy was going through something, that was for sure and certain. What it was, no one had any guesses. At least, no reasonable ones.

Moomin stayed up at all hours of the night burning the oil in his lamp down to dregs and slept fitfully until noon. When he emerged from his bedroom, it was a gamble on who you would be getting. Some days, he glowed like a newlywed. On others, he was sullen and morbid. Often he would fluctuate between these moods wildly, confusing anyone around him.

But whatever the folks of the valley saw, it was ten times as worse in Moomin’s head.

He was, in the plainest sense of the word, happy. Most days he felt as though he were the happiest person ever to walk the face of the earth. But happiness did not come without its trials, and the flavor of joy Moomin experienced was possibly one of the darkest and most unsure.

To love an impossible lover was one of the greatest heartbreaks mankind had to offer.

Moomin loved Snufkin with every fiber of his being. That had been the case for longer than anyone had been counting. And knowing that Snufkin loved him back… needless to say, he had written a shocking amount of poetry on the subject.

But the barricades set between the two seemed insurmountable. It was classic Romeo and Juliet, and it was bound to end in tragedy. 

For them to love each other the way they did was unthinkable, it was horrid… yet the love persisted. 

The future of their love was written in blood, and yet Moomin couldn’t help but dream. 

It was on the dark days that the fog came in heavy, choking out the air and suffocating Moomin. It was there most days. But on happy days, he could breathe.

He read and reread the letters, searching for the kernels of love in each of them. Those letters in which they dreamed of their perfect future were his favorites. There was so much love in them already, and now…

But it never could be. They were both expected to marry nice young women and settle down with them, meeting only for tea and friendly conversations. No moonlight swims, no sincere embraces, just two respectable young men with a respectable friendship.

It pained Moomin so to imagine the future that surely lay ahead. It would, of course, be a dream to live in that remote cottage by the ocean, but dreams rarely came true.

And even if they were allowed to be romantically involved it wasn’t as if there was much opportunity for it. Snufkin was worlds away, being shot at on the daily and still found the time to write and say that he loved him.

It was because of these deliberations that Moomin did not reply to the letter until late October. 

Him and Snorkmaiden had been looking through a photo album of all of the friends as children, rosy-cheeked and joyfully plump. There was one page that stood out, though. It was a blurry picture, shot by Moomin’s own childish hands, of a very small Snufkin standing on a very large pumpkin and looking rather pleased with himself. 

Moomin remembered the day it was shot; Snufkin had begged Mamma to let him use a bit of the garden to grow pumpkins in and had grown a prize-winning one, bigger than Moomin’s entire body. Moomin ran his hands over the dear little picture and without thinking murmured, “I love him.”

“I’m sorry?” Snorkmaiden said. 

Moomin looked up at his wonderful friend with watery eyes and did not want to lie. “I love him.”

She put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, rocking gently back and forth on the couch as he cried tears of happiness and heartbreak. “I love him so, so, so much.”

“I know, dear,” she said. “I know.”

 

~

 

_October 22, 1944_

_Dearest dear Snufkin,_

_Yes, I love you! I love you I love you I love you I love you! I can’t put into words how much I love you! I feel as though I could shout it from the rooftops, that I love Snufkin and Snufkin loves me! ‘The hearers may cry, ‘amen!’’_

_Snufkin, your letter was so full of apologies that you didn’t even take the time to ask if I loved you back. Perhaps you were afraid of what I might say. For a long time I was afraid of what I was going to say in this, but now I know. I love you so much, Snufkin. I love you more than the moon loves the earth or a bumblebee loves a flower._

_Remember letters ago when I said I was depriving you of love letters? Well, I don’t plan on depriving you now, especially now that I know that you feel the same way I do. Oh, what a relief that last letter was! I have been making myself ill over worrying for and loving you. But you love me, and I feel as though I’ll seem like a symbol of youth and strength forever._

_Snufkin, may I be serious for a paragraph? I have so many concerns, dear. So many that they almost override the joy. Because we can’t live as we are. And even if we could, you’re so far away, facing death at every corner. I’m so scared for the grim reality of our futures. Please, when you write me back, soothe my anxieties and tell me it will all be alright. That we’ll build our dream future in that little house by the ocean and live there, just the two of us. And no one will bother us except to come for tea or birthdays, and we’ll be content to be alone with each other and the sea and our love._

_Snorkmaiden expects that she will be engaged to her boyfriend soon. We all think it’s a wonderful match. Speaking of Snorkmaiden, I’m afraid I let slip my affections for you. She knows, to be concise. But she understands and she doesn’t mind one bit. Speaking with her gives me hope for the future- our future- in that there are people out there who will support us, no matter what. And I am glad that one of those people is the lovely Snorkmaiden._

_I cannot wait to see you, Snufkin. I can’t wait to take your face in my hands and kiss you senseless. Please return soon._

_Your love until the end of everything._

_-Moomin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know I just wanted to get it out there  
> Love! Wonderful!   
> Moomin my poor tortured boy  
> Snorkmaiden is the ally we all need


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More time passes.

_November 28, 1944_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_It really is torturous without you! I thought I was at full capacity of missing you but I see now that I’ve only scraped the surface. Something about our recent developments have unearthed a secret, deeper potential for missing you and I sometimes wish that it could go back to the way things were but then I stop myself and no, I would not trade this for the world._

_I have a newfound appreciation for the love songs on the radio. They do ring true, don’t they? I suppose you have your own share of songs amongst the men, but I have a hunch they aren’t as sweet as the ones broadcasted to the public. A little more swearing, a little more drinking, a little more filth. But that’s life, I suppose. A balance between sweetness and lewdness makes the world interesting. I’ve met a traveler who played the banjo and knew a good deal about folk music. So many of his songs reminded me of you, Snufkin. They were all about traveling and living life to the fullest. I think there’s something special about music, how it can express so many emotions that are so difficult to just say right out. I’m very glad you play music. It makes me love you all the more._

_The winter’s moving in. Soon enough it’ll be right here on our doorstep and we won’t have a choice but to accept it. But right now, nobody wants to say that the fall is over. It was such a brilliant fall, one of the best I’ve ever seen. It’s a real shame you had to miss it. How was the fall where you were?_

_I think there ought to be a group for folks with lovers away at war. So that we could get together and talk about how much we miss you all._

_I hope you enjoy it when I’m silly, Snufkin, because I think writing to you has made me more foolish than ever. I think all the missing and the loving scrambled my brain. At least if you are as crazy as you think you are I’ll be equally crazy to match. Do you think if they lock us up in the nuthouse they’ll let us share a cell?_

_It’s awfully lonesome, loving you with no one to share it with. There’s Snorkmaiden, of course, but I love you too much to discuss with one person. If I could, I would find a microphone and speak my love into the radio so that the entire world could hear, even you. I miss your voice. I miss everything about you, but your lovely voice most of all. When you come home, tell me you love me. Say it over and over again until I have no choice but to believe it._

_P.S. Did you think Roosevelt would win? I certainly didn’t. Maybe you don’t have time to keep up with American politics but the radio would not stop talking about him, so I couldn’t help but get involved. Mamma’s a fan, at any rate._

_Your love until the seasons stop coming._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

_January 20, 1945_

_Cheerio._

_And a happy new year to you as well! I’m glad the fireworks went well, although it sure is a shame Sniff didn’t lose his hand after all (only kidding! I wish the best for Sniff). It’s funny- some of the men decided we had to have some kind of celebration so they got drunk and fired blanks into the sky. Everyone thought there was a surprise attack and sergeant Hodgkins chewed them out like nobody’s business. I never used to like loud noises and I like them even less now. When I get home I’ll be like a child again, hiding from thunderstorms. I suppose it’s crass of me to talk about this so lightly but it’s the only way I can, love. You will have quite the basket case on your hands when you get back._

_I can hardly believe what you say is true. Could we really have Cove Cottage? It seems impossible that Mr. Hemulen would be selling the place, it was always his pride and joy. And what are we going to do without him? It’s a real shame Mr. Hemulen is moving away but I suppose he is getting up there in years and there are quite a great deal of hills around the house. And to have a house of our own? It seems far too good to be true. But I trust you. There is nothing I would love more than to come back to the valley and live in Cove Cottage, far away from town, right by the sea. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. We could buy it with my service pay and I could live there with you and we would be happy as the day is long. Please tell me as soon as possible if you have secured the deal so I know whether to get my hopes up or not._

_There’s nothing worse than waking up and not being in the valley, I think. I’ll wake up from a lovely dream and think I’m back home, in my tent by the river. But it’s always spoiled in an instant and I feel crummy for the rest of the day. But knowing you’re there waiting makes it better._

_It’s cold here. I wish I was back home with you, in front of a roaring fire, with some of Moominmamma’s tea. That would be true living. Curl up in front of a fire for me, won’t you?_

_You must be awful bored in the winter without your job at the farm. They don’t have you do anything, do they? I can’t imagine what you could do on a farm in the wintertime. Well, I envy you either way. I imagine it would be dreadfully boring in your shoes but boredom would be much, much preferable to this. I would give my left arm for a little bit of relaxation. Oh dear, I’m beginning to sound like old Joxter. I miss you terribly and I can’t wait to return._

_I’ll see you soon, my dove._

_-Snufkin_

 

~

 

_February 17, 1945_

_Dearest Snufkin,_

_The winter is bitter right now. The past few winters have been pretty warm, just kind of wet and grey. But it’s freezing cold and dry here, which is the worst combination. We haven’t gotten too much snow, just about a foot- but enough to be a real nuisance. But it’s alright, I’ve got a fireplace and letters from you to keep me warm and happy. It must seem like I’m gloating. I’m not trying to, I promise. I know you won’t be jealous. You’re not like that. How is the winter where you are? I hope for your sake it’s nice and mild, with no annoying snow or anything of the sort._

_My love, Cove Cottage is ours if we want it! I have worked it all out with Mr. Hemulen. We agreed that we would not finalize the payments on the house until you return, just in case. Heaven forbid if something happens, it would be foolish to sell the house to me, for I would most definitely waste away and die within the year. If we don’t take the house, Mr. Hemulen will give it to Mrs. Fillyjonk’s nephew. He seems like a fine young man but at the end of the day, a Fillyjonk is a Fillyjonk and I would prefer to keep their presence in the valley limited. I hope it isn’t awfully wicked of me to say that. Mr. Hemulen has led me around the cottage a few times and I love it more and more each time I see it. It’s so wonderful, to have a house that’s lived in. Especially lived in by such wonderful people. I don’t think I could stand it to live in a brand new house, where all the pressure would be on us to make it a home. At least with Cove Cottage we know it is already broken in, so to say. Like a comfortable pair of hand-me-down boots._

_It’s difficult without you, Snufkin. I would be lying if I said I was fine. I have said before that the summer is the worst but I rescind that statement- I know better now. Every day is the worst day, and it’s only shown up by the next. But I am surviving, and so are you. It feels as though a part of me was carried off with you, and I miss it as much as I miss you. I miss myself, the way I used to be. And I know that even when you return it can’t be exactly the same but my god, it will be so much better. I have such a perfect picture of our future in my mind and nothing scares me more than the realization that it cannot be like that. Nothing in life ever works out the way you want it. You know that better than anyone else. I wasn’t cut out for a life of adversity, Snufkin. I was designed to live in cozy happiness until the end of time and there is no such thing now. There can’t be such a thing in a time like this. I need you right now, my love, my dear. I need a shoulder to lean on and someone to hold, or maybe to hold me. I just want to hold me again, is that so much to ask? I need you so much right now. I love you more than anything in this foolish world and there is nothing more foolish than the two of us. Love, love, love, I can’t wait to see you again. I can’t wait to see you again._

_Your love until music plays no more._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

_April 8, 1945_

_Cheerio._

_There’s nothing better than rising with the sun, I think. I used to hate it. For a long time I hated how early we would wake up here. It’s odd- I used to love waking up before dawn. And I love it again. But dear, I don’t think I ever want to hear Reveille again._

_It’s difficult to find beauty in places like these. Often times the places once were beautiful but were destroyed and desecrated and by the time I get there, almost all of the niceness is gone away. But I find beauty in small things. Like the wildflowers that grow everywhere we go, like they follow us. Or maybe we follow them. I believe I lived my life like a wildflower for a long time. But even wildflowers have got to take root sometime, I think. I love the sunsets most of all. Every night they’re different and special, and even when it’s gloomy you can still see a little bit of pink peeking through the clouds._

_The other night there was a vicious storm, one that I had never seen the likes of before. It came in from the sea around suppertime and struck suddenly. It rained and thundered, of course, but there was this great rolling fog that covered every inch of everything. It was a thick sea fog and you could feel it in your lungs as you breathed and feel its wetness on your face. I remember going out to use the outhouse and being so overcome by the fog that I just stood there for a long while, trying to get my bearings. It was so thick that the entire world seemed grey and my senses seemed to disappear, so that all I could pick out was the roar of the sea and the smell of the salt in the air. It was awful and thrilling all at the same time, like nothing I’ve known before. I’ve lived through many a storm in my life, but none so spectacular. A fishing boat must have capsized in the wind because when we woke, we could see the mangled remains of the boat on the rocks and all the bait had been washed ashore and was being pecked at by the seabirds. There was no sign of the fishermen, rest their souls._

_I believe there is nothing more reassuring than the power of nature. Because as much as we people may try and kill each other and overrun the earth, nature will always win out in the end. When I die, I would not like to die at a man’s hand. And if I die here, I would like wildflowers to grow on my grave._

_So you have finally gotten that cow? Or have you only finally gotten around to telling me? Oh dear, I’m beginning to feel like an afterthought. Soon you will forget me and when I return I will knock on your door and you will answer and say, ‘who are you? Please get off of my property.’ Forgive me Moomin, I’m only teasing. But yes, I do think Fennel is quite alright for a cow’s name. It’s a little unusual, sure, but it will have to get used to unusual if it is to live with the Moomins._

_I can’t wait to come back. I will be able to see Fennel the cow and all of the things that are new in the valley. It must have changed at least a little over the years, right? Mr. Hemulen will be gone. Off living in the city, I suppose. And we will have our own little corner of the universe. I try not to dwell on the negatives. There are too many harsh realities in the world, I’ve come to understand. It is best to assess your hand and decide which pleasant lies you can afford to keep. Good night, Moomin. I’m very tired. Are you?_

_I’ll see you soon, my dove._

_-Snufkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this doesn't make sense reread it and make sure you read the dates  
> whassup y'all i feel like this update took a long time  
> y'all......... i love the Coco soundtrack  
> please comment fun things


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuckin' finally, right?

On April 30, 1945, something in the collective consciousness shifted. 

Because now, an end seemed within reach. 

Now, people felt as though they could hope.

Every day since then, there was nothing in the Moomin house more important than the radio and the newspaper. Every morning, when the postman came, Moomin fetched the mail and brought it to the dining room table, where Pappa ritualistically went through every letter and parcel with his ornate letter opener before turning to the paper and flipping to the front page. 

Every day there was a little sigh of disappointment when they didn’t see what they were hoping for. 

The radio was turned full blast all day and there was always someone in earshot, just in case.

It seemed like an eternity that they lived like that, on the tips of their toes. 

There was one Tuesday in May that dawned hot and bright. It seemed as though the sun were a blazing coal, relentlessly scorching anyone who dared step out of the shade. Flowers in gardens wilted, and hordes of children retreated to the beach, where they could escape the heat in the water. 

Moomin returned from work early that day. His boss decided that it was cruel to make them work in such unpleasant conditions and besides, they deserved it for working so hard as of late. 

When Moomin got home he instantly made a beeline for his room, stripping off his farm clothes and changing into a clean shirt, one more suited for the weather. He was halfway through untying his boots when he heard Little My, who had come into the house for a glass of lemonade, shout, “Churchill’s on the radio!”

Moomin, with his shoes half tied, scrambled downstairs to take his place in front of the radio with the rest of his family, who had heeded the call with equal speed. 

“Yesterday morning,” Churchill said, “at 2:41 am, at General Eisenhower’s headquarters-”

Moomin shared a look with Little My. Her eyes were as big as saucers. 

He didn’t want to get his hopes up, he didn’t. 

But there was something about the gravity of this announcement. Something in the air. 

There was that same gut feeling that he had had that day Snufkin was sent away. 

“-Designated head of the German state signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea, and air forces in Europe to the Allied expeditionary force.” 

A large swell of cheers came up around Moomin. For a moment, he couldn’t fathom where it was coming from, as everyone sitting around him had their mouths firmly shut and their eyes trained on the little radio.

But the windows were open, and he realized that the cheers had erupted from every other house in the valley, simultaneous exclamations of absolute joy. 

Before the broadcast was even over Moomin rushed outside, into the baking heat, where he could see everyone else standing on their stoops with a dazed look in their eyes, perhaps trying to make sense of whether anyone else had heard the broadcast too. 

And before he could fully comprehend the news, Moomin was in the center square of town, waving a flag and singing along with the crowd. It was overwhelming, that was the only word for it. Folks he had never seen before were there. The feeling in the air was palpable, though Moomin couldn’t quite define it. 

At one point, Little My jumped in the fountain. Snorkmaiden hitched up her skirt and joined her. Sniff took a picture of the two, their arms around each others’ shoulders, grinning with gleaming smiles fit to blind any passing reveler.

My spotted one of her friends from Land Girls across the square and pushed through to embrace her. She was quite the opposite of Little My, tall and muscular, and when they reached each other, the other girl planted a kiss right on My’s smiling mouth.

Nobody was scandalized but Mrs. Fillyjonk, really. Everyone was kissing: friends, lovers, complete strangers. The emotions of the day just seemed to boil over, and everyone was caught in the throws of it. 

And yet there was that gnawing feeling; that sense that someone was missing.

And someone was.

He knew Snufkin would hate this. The crowd, the noise. But Moomin wished that he could at least be holding his hand, be a part of the joy. 

As Moomin watched everyone around him embrace and sing and kiss he just closed his eyes and felt the sun on his skin and knew that far away, someone wished to kiss too. 

As the sun began to draw below the Lonely Mountains folks set up big tables in the middle of the streets, all draped with buntings and creaking under the weight of food brought by neighbors from all corners of the valley. 

Someone had brought ice cream. 

Moomin hadn’t had ice cream for a long time.

They all stayed out through the night. Nobody went inside to sleep; they didn’t want to leave. Instead they laughed and played music and someone with a house in town opened their windows and turned their radio up and they all listened to Churchill’s speech to the throngs gathered in London, while they all huddled in the streets of Moominvalley. 

It got colder as the sun went down, and folks got close. The four of them- Moomin, Snorkmaiden, Sniff, and Little My, sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing one blanket between them all. 

It was over.

The war was over.

 

~

 

There was nothing worse than the illusion of freedom.

That weak, flimsy delusion of independence, the kind that doesn’t hold up to the light. Just a sleight of hand and a few clever words, and everyone starts thinking that they’ll be home within the hour. 

Snufkin tried very hard to be optimistic. It was the only possible belief system that could get a person through times like these. But there were some things that were impossible to overlook.

Like the endless expanse of tents, all congruent and mass-produced. Three men to a tent, 85 points needed for instant and efficient demobilization. Snufkin had just over 30. 

One man, nicknamed Hutch for some unknown reason, was sent home in late August. He had three little boys at home, and he gave Snufkin a picture of them before he left. He said that when he was home with them, he wouldn’t need a picture. And Snufkin needed something to remember their K.P. days by. Snufkin had blinked back his tears and waved him off from the road, the dust from the departing truck kicking dirt up into his eyes. 

The days moved slowly. Each second crept by at its own pace, slow and steady. The daytime was agony; he spent the waking hours simply waiting for the day to be over. 

When the night did come, though, it wasn’t as though he could sleep.

The rest of the men seemed to have not gotten the message that they were stuck here for god knows how long. They spent the nights drinking and making merry, singing songs that seemed far too happy to be in earnest. 

Even on the blessed nights where the noisemakers were off making trouble somewhere else, Snufkin lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the tent, listening to the snores of his father next to him. The other man who shared the tent, Al, was one of the boisterous ones. He was often out at night, only to stumble in during the wee hours of the morning and wake Snufkin in the process by stepping on his feet.

So he would end up spending the dark hours of the evening trying to steady his breathing, mouthing the lyrics to songs he barely knew to keep his mind occupied. When those grating notes of reveille swept the air, he knew that he was one day closer to going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whassup  
> \- April 30 was the day Hitler killed himself  
> \- May 8 is the day the war ended  
> \- little my says lesbian farmer rights  
> \- the points thing was uuuhhh there was this system that would assign soldiers points based on months overseas, kids at home, etc and you needed 85 points to be sent home ASAP and i counted and snuf would only have like 30... sorry dude
> 
> i feel like this chapter is short and kinda bad but ya know what?? you're not out of the fuckin woods yet guys
> 
> military slang:   
> \- K.P: kitchen patrol (you knew that already)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not-so-great things happen

Moomin knew that Snufkin could return any day.

In the newspapers there were constantly pictures of homecoming soldiers, big full-page spreads of men kissing their ladyloves passionately on the streets. Moomin saved these pages and hid them in a box under his bed. There was no reason to it, really. He just liked the pictures.

The summer was hot, and Moomin kept his bedroom window open. The letters pinned to his wall trembled in the breeze like captive butterflies.

He spent Sundays with Mr. Hemulen, helping him pack his possessions in big boxes and drinking lemonade on the porch. He was moving to the city in September, where there weren’t so many hills and he could take a car places rather than walk. 

Mr. Hemulen was leaving most of his furniture, the dusty sofa and the big dinner table with the uncomfortable wooden chairs that were really just in need of a few cushions. 

Every time he walked through Cove Cottage he grew more and more enamored with the old house. The peeling whitewash on the outside, the wood all stained and warped from the ocean air and the salt spray. The little painted ivy vines around the kitchen door. The big brick fireplace in the sitting room, big enough to crawl into. Everything about the house just seemed to say “home.” 

During the day, as he worked on the farm, he daydreamed. 

Silly little daydreams about things like baking pies and making bonfires in the backyard. 

Every night, just before sunset, he would sit on the grass in the backyard and practice his banjo. He liked it. It was nice, having something to hold on to and get snippy about if someone touched it wrong. It felt nice in his lap. He liked the ease of his fingers finding the chords, plucking out the notes. It was all simple. He needed simple.

Snorkmaiden was proposed to by her beau. Ever since it had happened (apparently he had done it on the hill overlooking the flower fields, which Moomin found very romantic) she had been walking on air, planning every detail of her big day.

And Moomin was happy for her and proud of her for finding such a great man to love. His heart positively burst with joy for her but it hurt a little, too.

Because it rubbed salt in the wound that had been growing along Moomin’s stomach for a while now. They weren’t kids anymore. They weren’t children anymore and they never could be again. 

It stung, because Moomin had tried to hold onto childhood for so long. It was so much nicer than the painful reality of adulthood, the inevitable heartbreak and pain that came with it. It was much easier to be a lovestruck child than a grown-up. 

So he smiled during the day and he cried at night because he had never been anything other than a dirt-stained child, running wild in the same place he was born, and he would never be anything more. 

He kept reading stories in the newspapers about boys with big dreams, who had been fixing up cars back home but who had never made it further than the beaches of Normandy. 

And Snufkin was alive. 

And all he could do was wait.

He was going to wait and waste time until he died and there would be nothing more than the obituary in the local paper. 

So he played his banjo in the backyard and felt the weight of it in his lap and the callouses on the tips of his fingers, proof that he was something more than that house in the valley. 

Little My moved away.

She gave very little warning, just took a suitcase of clothes and her pay from the WLA and announced that she was leaving. She had always been like that, brave and unapologetic. 

Moomin was going to miss her. She had added something special to the valley, something that he couldn’t quite place but didn’t realize that he missed until she was gone. 

But, like all dark times, there were good days. Little pockets of sunshine through the clouds. Days when Snorkmaiden and her husband (Moomin still had a little start every time anyone mentioned him that way) came to visit and they would eat Mamma’s famous boiled-baby pudding for tea and laugh about the ‘good old days.’

Moomin felt as if his life were a song in minor, but one with one wily major chord sneaking in every chorus or so. 

He was starting to get very good at the banjo.

There was one day, early into the fall, that the sun seemed particularly bright. It was one of the final bursts of Indian summer before the world went into hibernation again. The pumpkins grew round and fat in the garden and already Mamma had cured the meat to keep for the winter. 

They didn’t have fish as often, with Snufkin away. He used to catch a big fish for them weekly, enough to tide them over until the next week. And when the winter came, they would salt the fish and keep it in big barrels in the attic. But he went away and left his fishing rod in the dusty shed, not to be touched until he returned.

It was on this day that Moomin fetched the mail.

He had just had a wonderful breakfast of the strawberry jam him and Mamma had made earlier that summer, on a fresh-baked piece of bread, the soft kind. The best way to start the morning, in his opinion. 

The postman gave his signature rap at the door and Moomin, full of vivacity and jam, leapt up to grab it. He took the mail, the normal assortment of letters and news, and brought it back to the table. 

There was one envelope, however, that stood out.

It was formal looking. Almost reminiscent of the old V-mail. And as he looked at the red and blue border, his heart sank deep into his stomach. “Mamma,” he called out, “I’m going up to my room for a bit.”

Without waiting for a response, he started his descent up the stairs, and as he climbed, the old fog seemed to descend around him, until he couldn’t even see what lay just before him.

The window was open, and a light breeze drifted in, rustling the letters still pinned to the wall. Moomin thought it sounded almost like the woods whispering, the wind in the trees. As if he were all alone in a dark forest like a frightened child.

_October 20, 1945_

_Dear Ms. Moomin,_ the letter began.

Moomin would have laughed if not for the knot of wire in his throat. 

_It is my somber responsibility to inform you of private Snufkin’s condition. The private was involved in an unfortunate accident with a supply truck and was seriously injured, along with two other men. I understand that Snufkin was designated for demobilisation in November, but his health is being considered of the most critical importance at the moment, and it is very likely he will not be well enough to return by then. He is currently being held at a nearby military hospital and is recovering under our nurses’ careful watch. When dispatched from the hospital, he will be sent to the address written on Snufkin’s letters to you. I understand you and the private are in the process of purchasing a house, and I trust he will be in good hands. My sincerest condolences for any grief this has caused you._

_-Sergeant Hodgkins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey sorry this is so short  
> i've been at camp for three weeks and i just needed to kickstart the plot again  
> boiled baby pudding is a kind of pudding, no babies involved (just a suspiciously tied cloth)  
> comment if you've ever gone to summer camp


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snufkin is not doing so hot rn.
> 
> [warning for the chapter: mildly graphic depictions of wounds & illness]

Snufkin was in hell.

That was the only explanation his brain could muster in its addled state. 

For an eternity there was only numb pain. Dull throbbing all over his body and a constant ringing in his ears. 

Then came the rattling breaths and the white-hot ache in his ribs and he had no choice but to acknowledge that he was alive, for better or for worse.

Time passed painfully. Sometimes, he felt as if he had been abandoned in the frozen tundra. Other times he felt as if he had been plunged directly into hellfire. Hot, cold, hot, cold, and above it all there was the shaking and the cough and the sound of someone singing.

Bright lights and clean shirts. 

The moments where he could see clearly out of the window opposite him and the moments where he could see nothing at all. 

The constant pain in his chest, like he was being punished for existing.

And his _leg_. God, it hurt. Bodies weren’t supposed to hurt like this, were they?

Sometimes, he thought he saw Moomin out of the corner of his eye. The white-blond hair, the pale skin. But he would blink the film away from his eyes and it would be one of those bloody nurses, with their white caps and crisp white blouses. 

On days when he could think he would watch the nurses dress his leg and look, with a blankness of exhaustion and fevered apathy, at all the blood and gangrene coming off on the bandages and think about whether it was better or worse than the day before. 

There was one nurse that he liked more than the rest. She had short blonde hair in a fashionable bob and sang “Rum and Coca-Cola” as she worked. 

“I suppose I’m lucky,” he remembered saying, one day when he faced the window and watched the red leaves rustle in the wind. “I could have been injured during the war.”

She had frowned and looked up at Snufkin with sympathetic eyes. “If ye’d-a been injured in action, ye’d-a been sent home early, in the least.” 

What Snufkin hated the most were the days when he slipped into the delirium and all around him he could hear hushed voices murmuring together, just out of earshot. When the blonde-haired nurse called him the “poor wain” under her breath. 

By the time snow had begun to fall, he was well enough to sit in the little chair by the window and talk with the volunteer nurses that came in and out. The blonde-haired one brought him a book of poems to read. It was her own, she said, and in the inside front cover was the name Elizabeth Bowlan in neat print. 

There was a poem halfway through the book with a dogeared corner on the page. The ink had turned from black to grey, presumably by overexposure to sun and hands running over the paper. 

_A fog drifts in, the heavy laden_

_Cold white ghost of the sea._

_One by one the hills go out,_

_The road and the pepper-tree._

_I watch the fog float in at the window_

_With the whole world gone blind,_

_Everything, even my longing, drowses,_

_Even the thoughts in my mind._

_I put my head on my hands before me,_

_There is nothing left to be done or said,_

_There is nothing to hope for, I am tired,_

_And heavy as the dead._

Snufkin read that poem maybe three hundred times before they let him walk, a thick wooden cane grasped in his hand. Every step may have burned but it was a step, it was a little bit of freedom. Snufkin could see outside of the window that the trees were heavy with snow, and the nurses gave him a thick wool blanket to sling around his shoulders when he went walking about the ward. 

It was far from a charmed life.

He composed letters in his head to pass the hours. He couldn’t have written them down if he wanted to; his hands were still too shaky. 

He thought of life in Cove Cottage, though he had only ever seen it from the outside. So he imagined yellow wallpaper and a nice cozy fireplace in his mind and summoned up Moomin right there beside him. 

Snufkin was going to spend the rest of his life with Moomin. He had made up his mind.

Come hell or high water. 

He wasn’t allowed outside. He was weak enough as it was, they didn’t want him risking anything further. So Snufkin went stir-crazy and watched the snow fall outside his little window, knowing that one day, he would be watching the same snow from the window of his very own house, with a cup of tea and his love by his side. 

He wished he had his harmonica.

There was one day when, as Snufkin sat in his chair by the window, a visitor came.

“Sergeant,” Snufkin said. He didn’t make any move to stand. 

Sergeant Hodgkins tipped his hat, a classy black Hamburg that Snufkin had never seen during his days in action. “Private.”

They exchanged pleasantries, despite the unpleasant nature of their meeting. “I’ve come to discuss details surrounding your release,” Hodgkins said. “Given that you have no listed residence or living family, I’ve arranged with the recipient of your letters, the lovely Ms. Moomin, that you will, upon your leaving, live with her. It’s under my understanding that you are in the process of buying a house, yes?”

Snufkin nodded. He had a smarting headache over his left eye. “I… what about old Joxter?”

Hodgkins smiled patiently, a smile that implied the delirium he perceived Snufkin to still be gripped with. “Joxter went AWOL two months ago.”

Joxter went AWOL. He had abandoned the military. It was about time; Snufkin had been wondering when the bastard was going to get around to it. There was, in Snufkin’s mind, a vivid image of old Joxter sitting in the parlor of a decadent brownstone, with a glass of brandy in his hand and song on his lips. A woman with red hair and a smile similar to Snufkin’s own. 

_Dear Moomin,_ Snufkin thought.

“I hear that you’re expected to be released within the month,” Sergeant Hodgkins said.

 _I feel as though I must love you or die,_ Snufkin thought.

“You will receive your pay on your release,” Sergeant Hodgkins said.

 _I die every day without you,_ Snufkin thought. 

“I must be off,” Sergeant Hodgkins said.

 _I am terribly frightened,_ Snufkin thought. “Goodbye,” he said.

The Sergeant tipped his hat.

Some days, Snufkin composed music in his head. Songs that he planned on playing on his harmonica when he returned. Slow, meandering melodies and dark, quick chords. Chaotic dissonance followed by gentle vibrato. A woman’s voice, the comforting presence of a cello. 

And he never cried, even if the blonde-haired nurse did when she heard him murmur lyrics alone in his bed. 

Yes, Snufkin was in hell.

But he knew that heaven was waiting, and there was nothing that could stop him from going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wassup
> 
> so long story short snufkin was in a car accident and got v hurt and then while he was in the hospital he got pneumonia and ain't doing great


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A homecoming of sorts.

It was late December, that was all Snufkin knew. It had snowed.

Snufkin left the hospital with a bag of the few belongings he had managed to hold on to through the chaos, a metal cane that became icy in the cold winter air, and a ticket on the next train. There was a taxi waiting by the gate, and for the first time Snufkin saw the outside of the building he had spent so long in the confines of. It was a large, hulking thing, brick and sprawling. It had clearly been repurposed, though from what Snufkin couldn’t quite place. A university, maybe, or a rich man’s estate. 

He didn’t remember exactly what happened, but he knew that he had been in an accident in one of the supply trucks, and that fact churned in his gut as he settled in the backseat of the taxi. 

It wasn’t far to the train station, but every second Snufkin could see the world unfurl out of the window like an impressionist painting that changed with every passing tree and building. Factories churning out smoke slowly ebbed into vast expanses of forests, their leaves replaced with a burgeoning harvest of snow and ice clumped to spindly branches. 

Despite the ongoing ache that was ever-present in his leg, Snufkin couldn’t help but feel an insatiable need to get out and walk, to breathe in the crisp winter air and see the people bustling about in thick wool coats and gloves. 

The train station was remarkable empty. There were only about five people on the platform, so Snufkin sat down on the wooden bench and looked around. There was a businessman, or what looked like one, to his left, with a fashionable suit and a leather briefcase he held clutched in his hand like it was a life raft on a shark-infested ocean. To his right were two women, maybe Snufkin’s age or younger. They were not nearly as fashionable as the businessman, but they held themselves with a dignity only young ladies possessed. One said, “you sound just like your mother,” to which the other replied, scandalized, “I do _not_!”

Snufkin smiled in spite of himself. 

There was a couple on the bench next to his, sharing heat and breath. Snufkin averted his eyes. There was a sense of electricity in the air, none of the sluggish comfort that was present in the humidity and cool of autumn. It was cold excitement, and one got the sense that if they lit a match they would set the whole world on fire, as if everything around them was dry kindling. Snufkin worried the ticket between his fingers until the ink on the letters began to wear and rub off, staining his fingertips blue. He opened his bag and pulled out his coat, the one he hadn’t worn for what, three years? Four? He was almost expecting it to feel like an old friend, with its familiar rips and stains, but as he slipped it on he noticed that the fabric was cold to the touch and its time sitting folded at the bottom of his bag had caused it to wrinkle uncomfortably. It hung loosely on his thinning frame, and Snufkin had never felt so young and so old at the same time.

There was a poster opposite Snufkin of a young woman in a navy uniform looking off into the distance with a vague mix of pride and unease. “He’ll be home sooner,” the poster read in large, ostentatious lettering, “now you’ve joined the WAVES.” 

Snufkin suddenly felt as though he might cry.

The train came roaring into the station with a deafening screech as the wheels sparked against the tracks. Snufkin stood up and grabbed his bag, and though he was waiting on even footing with the rest of the people on the platform he felt as though he was being watched from all angles. All the war heroes had returned already; the time for rejoicing had come and gone, and Snufkin, with his cane and the world-weary hunch of his shoulders, looked like a pathetic reproduction of one of the soldiers that had come home the year before, shining and bold in their pristine uniforms, their medals gleaming across their chests. 

He got into a seat in the back of the train, the near-empty car providing him with a sense of comfortable solitude. But after years of constant company, he found himself awfully isolated. He always prided himself on spending his life alone without being lonely; it was a very specific skill. Now he just felt abandoned, friendless, and outcast in the train car.

Had the people on the train experienced death? Loss? The absolute, all-encompassing pain that gripped your entire body and left you, shaking and sore, to sort through the ruins of what had been left behind by the mortar shell and machine gun? 

The businessman with the leather case had likely never felt so hopeless. Perhaps he had a brother who had enlisted and he felt as though he knew what it was like. 

There was a man in the hospital who was wracked with consumption. He had been a distinguished artist and an even more distinguished soldier when he coughed up blood on the battlefield and they shipped him away to die. And for weeks he sat in a chair in the corner of his room, taking shallow, rattling breaths until he took no more. 

Snufkin didn’t think he would ever forget those dry, hacking coughs that made the man’s whole body quake until tears came to his eyes and blood pooled in the corners of his mouth like a disgusting smile. 

Outside the window, bustling factory towns gave way to humble clusters of homes while the trees slowly overtook the landscape as they moved deeper into the country. 

The train lurched to a stop and for a moment Snufkin’s heart lurched with it, but it was not his station, and he stayed in his seat. A woman came in and, after stashing her fashionable pink suitcase above her, sat opposite him.

Snufkin looked at her through the reflection in the window. She had blonde hair pushed back off her face by a blue scarf, as if she were driving through the summer countryside in a convertible. She wore a calf-length navy blue reefer coat and as she sat with her head resting comfortably against the back of her seat, she seemed a picture of grace; however, as Snufkin turned to gave his ticket to the conductor, he could see the way her toes tapped agitatedly against the floor. She was pretty in the way women in magazines were pretty, and Snufkin absently wondered if she had ever been in any films and if that could be where the vague sense of familiarity came from. The woman pulled out a book and began to read, and Snufkin took her distraction as an excuse to watch her wholly. The book was on Christopher Marlowe and as she read she dragged the tip of her index finger along the edge of the pages. She had large eyes framed with very dark eyelashes that Snufkin couldn’t help but notice, and he was very close to believing her truly pretty before he noticed her ashen face: the slight green-grey tint of her skin, the feverish perspiration that clung to her temples. He looked away.

Snufkin closed his eyes and pictured what his life would be like in five years. In five years to the day, he decided, he would be sitting before a roaring fire in the cottage he owned with Moomin. There would be a cat curled up on his lap, a big fat one. Black with brown spots all over it, purring like all get out. He would have a cup of tea and a book and outside, snow would fall. He would look out the window and see it coming down and say to Moomin in the kitchen, “it’s snowing again.” 

“Looks like it,” Moomin would respond before coming in with his own tea and taking his place on the couch to Snufkin’s left. 

Before he could finish furnishing his daydream, the train stopped with a jerk. Snufkin stood, half in a daze, and gathered his things. The woman was still reading, and as he passed, Snufkin couldn’t help but say, “have a good day.” 

She looked up with faint surprise coloring her features. “Oh,” she said. “You too.”

It was cold on the platform. It had snowed heavily in his time away from the valley, and the trees drooped low to the ground, laden with snow and ice hanging like fruit. There was a path cut out into the snow, and Snufkin took his cane in one hand and his bag in the other and set out on a road more familiar to him than his own mind. He passed houses and buildings and rivers and trees, each weighed down with memories. Fantasies of youth lurked in every crevice of the valley, and Snufkin couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. 

The snow almost seemed oppressive as Snufkin walked. Many houses were dim; he suspected folks were out for the holidays. But the ones that were alive were lit joyously from the inside, candles glimmering in the windows. Snufkin’s watch attested that it was five-thirty, and the sun was already brushing the tops of the trees on its ascension below the horizon. He walked on.

As he crested the hill he knew so well he paused, the scene before him laid out like a painting in a museum. The brook cutting through the snow beneath him, its ice winding like a knife’s cut through the portrait. The trees framing his vision in every direction. The wan moon shining on the snow, catching the wintery gleam just so. And there, on the top of the hill, was Moominhouse, big and blue and just as lovely as he remembered. 

Snufkin set off at a run, leg be damned.

He ran all the way down the hill, across the little bridge, and up again to the porch. 

Icicles hung from the roof, and a merry wreath adorned the front door. Snufkin tested the handle and the door swung open with ease. 

For a moment, Snufkin believed that when he opened the door, he would be greeted by all his friends, five years younger and sitting around the dining room table playing cards, the sun shining through the window; a snapshot of a summer day from times long past. 

But when he stepped inside there was only darkness and cold.

The house was empty. It had all been abandoned, the logs sitting by the fire and the teacups hanging in the china cabinet like a display in a museum. 

Snufkin walked through the house like one walks through a graveyard.

In the kitchen there was a note by the coffee grinder that read, “Dear Mr. Tolyahen, please visit Fennel once a day. Give her fresh food and water and please rake the hay in the barn, if you will. Help yourself to the preserves in the cupboard. Thank you very much! -Moominmamma.”

Snufkin looked out the window to see a new barn in the back painted a jolly red. 

There were crackers and peach preserves in the cupboard over the sink, and though Snufkin was not Mr. Tolyahen he treated himself nonetheless. The preserves were like something out of a dream; Snufkin imagined that was what fairies lunched on, or maybe gods. 

Snufkin built a fire and, still dressed in his clothes from the day, wet around the ankles and wrinkled from activity, he settled on the couch. 

And, in such a familiar yet unknown place, for the first time since cease-fire, Snufkin allowed himself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> backstreets back ALRIGHT!  
> I know it's been a long time since i updated! school has been killing me and i was the lead in my school's musical (mamma mia gang represent) so rehearsal ate up my entire life. i can't promise i'll update any less sporadically from now on tho ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> there are only two more chapters left!!!!!! we in the home stretch boys


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion

The Moomins had gone away for the holidays to a distant cousin’s house by a lake that was reportedly “absolutely divine” in the winter. 

They had needed to drag Moomin along kicking and screaming, absolutely insistent on staying behind to wait for Snufkin. It wasn’t until Snorkmaiden (who, along with her husband, would be joining the family for the trip) slapped him clean across the face and said that a holiday never killed anybody. 

The family spent two weeks in idle bliss. The house was positively marvelous, a little chalet nestled inside a bucolic forest. They could stay in by the fire for days at a time, feasting on puddings and pies, and when they grew restless they could go out and skate on the frozen lake. 

But Moomin stayed restless. He never stayed in with the others. Every morning he would shoulder on his jacket and go walking through the woods alone. There was no destination, he would simply amble through the trees, watching his breath in the air before him. Thinking about the future. About letters that may be in the mailbox when he returned home. 

The woods were lonely in the winter, Moomin thought. In the summer everything was alive, with the cicadas humming and the birds singing in the trees, squirrels and all the other critters rustling the bushes. But it was cold and lonesome outside and so, so quiet. 

It was a welcome interruption when Moomin suddenly got sick. Nobody quite knew its origin, but it hit him like a ton of bricks and left him feverish and miserable. Mamma blamed the winter walks, Papa blamed the food. It took about two days of vomiting and complaining and hot broth before everyone decided to cut their losses and just send Moomin home, lest he ruin their vacation. Mamma wanted to come with him, of course, but Papa was insistent that he was an adult, he could take care of himself. Moomin agreed, partly out of guilt. 

So Moomin took the car and drove home alone. He was relieved; he didn’t know how Snufkin travelled so far from the valley every winter and didn’t lose his mind. 

As he came closer his worries became more intrusive: what if Snufkin had died while he was away on holiday and he wasn’t there to see the post, or what if he had come home and Moomin wasn’t there to greet him, or the war wasn’t really over and they were calling all the men back into action? It was ridiculous, he knew, but every concern seemed realer than the last. He had forgotten Snufkin’s harmonica on his dresser, and the noticeable absence of the comforting weight in his pocket only made Moomin’s heart race faster.

He turned on the car radio and drowned his thoughts in serial radio shows, the silly ones about detectives and precocious orphans. And as the trees blended into smudges of green and white outside the window, everything seemed alright. 

Moomin reached home in good time, and it was barely daybreak by the time he arrived. The whole valley seemed to be a winter wonderland, snow falling in gentle drifts against the rising sun, and Moomin loitered in the garden for a good while, taking in the scenery around him before walking slowly up the path.

And from the house there was the high, mournful music of a harmonica.

He broke into a run.

The house seemed to be dark to any onlooker, but- yes, looking closer there was the dim glow of firelight from the first-floor windows and shallow footsteps in the garden, half covered by new-fallen snow, and the music that Moomin knew could only be made by one person. 

Moomin hesitated at the door. What would he do, he wondered, if he opened the door and the house was empty?

What would he do if it wasn’t?

His hand slipped and the doorknob turned, the door squeaking on its hinges. The music stopped suddenly. And Moomin, with his heart in his throat, pushed open the door. 

There, in the center of the living room, was Snufkin, wonderful Snufkin, _his_ Snufkin, standing like Banquo’s ghost.

A sharp intake of breath, the crack of the fire, a door slamming shut, and the two of them stood like adversaries in a duel, desperate not to break the moment lest it only be a reflection in a pond, destroyed forever by the slightest touch.

That Snufkin stood differently was the first thing Moomin noticed. A cane was gripped tightly in his hand, and one of his shoulders, the one balanced on the cane, lurched downwards towards the floor as if an invisible weight rested there. His clothes hung loose on his bones, pants and a shirt Moomin recognized from the cedar closet Mamma kept stocked with abandoned clothes from nearly everyone in the valley in case of emergency. His hair was long and unkempt and he had grown an awful, scraggly beard that just barely covered the scars and cuts marring his face and neck. 

His face was like revisiting a childhood haunt after a hurricane had swept through, ravishing the once-familiar landscape until returning felt almost like exploring an alien planet. The beard, the scars, the new hollowness in his cheeks, the tan acquired from days in the sun, the striking gauntness of his face as a whole. But underneath it all there was that nose, and that lovely mouth, lips slightly parted and drawn up into an unbelieving smile. 

As the fire burned on, it threw a cloudy, ghoulish light over the whole scene, the flickering flames reflected in Snufkin’s eyes. They had a new haunted look about them, ringed with deep shadows, none of the old gaiety they once held. 

Snufkin’s hand shook on his cane and Moomin felt himself walking forward instinctively, his feet dragging along the floor. He stopped just short and looked down at his friend with a fond smile.

“Look at us,” he said, voice raw. “Old men already.”

Snufkin huffed a laugh and looked away, his gaze falling on the harmonica left forgotten on the sofa. A tear plunged its way down his face. “I had almost thought you had forgotten,” he murmured, the unspoken final word hanging in the air. 

Moomin could feel warm tears on his cheeks and, wiping them away with the sleeve of his sweater, engulfed Snufkin in a tight embrace. “Of course not.” For a while they stood like that, silent, as the fire raged on beside them. “I love you.”

Snufkin let his chin rest on the top of Moomin’s head, the way he had done so often before the war, and though Moomin couldn’t see he knew Snufkin was grinning. “I love you too, old man.”

Outside, the snow fell but inside the dark house, it was the most beautiful spring day either of them had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is........ *drumroll* the penultimate chapter!!!!! the next chapter will be an epilogue, so take this as the last one if you want  
> thank you all so much for reading and supporting and putting up with my angst. :)  
> please please comment!!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

_May 22, 1951_

_Dear Snufkin,_

_I know it’s silly to continue writing these, and I think I say so in every letter. The ridiculousness is brought home even more by the fact that here I am, writing you a letter, when you’re just downstairs fixing us eggs and toast for breakfast. But I can’t help it. I keep getting overcome with these vast waves of emotion that are so strong that I can’t_ help _myself from sitting down at my desk and writing to you. It’s like my life is an overcast day and every once in a while the clouds break and the sun comes shining through, and those are the moments that I feel compelled to write to you. I’ll tell you what it was today. I woke up this morning at eight like I do every morning and went downstairs to make a fire and then sat in the armchair by the hearth like I always do. And when you woke up I could hear your cane on the floor as you came down the stairs and even that was enough to make my heart swell out of love for you so much that it hurt my chest as if it were trying to escape and fill the whole room. Then you came up behind me and put your chin on my head and said “it snowed last night.” I told you that I had noticed and you just laughed and put your arms around my shoulders and said “it’s a wonderful day to be alive, my dove.” That is why I’m writing to you today. Because it’s a wonderful day to be alive but it’s_ always _wonderful to be alive as long as you’re living beside me. I don’t know how long I will continue to write these letters. Maybe this will be the last one and maybe I will keep writing until the day I die. But all I know is that as long as I have you, life will always be wonderful. I think I will keep all these letters in a box in the closet for you to find after I’m dead so that you can remember me and know how I felt about you every day of my life. And if you die before me, don’t worry- I won’t make you wait long._

_Your love until the end of our days on this earth and together._

_-Moomin_

 

~

 

The world changed over the years and so did Moominvalley. 

Slowly, the little seaside haven became a sort of destination for young couples fresh off of marriages or Beatles world tours, and the small town grew in size to accommodate stylish restaurants, hotels, and quaint B&Bs. 

But as much as things changed, everyone agreed that the thing that stayed constant, that held perfectly the peace and simplicity of days past, was Cove Cottage. That little whitewashed house down by the rocks, sandwiched between the mountains and the ocean, greyed by salty wind. It overlooked the seashore with a matronly air; anyone frolicking on the beach could see the house atop the cliffs, its windows like loving eyes, its chimneys like signal flares in the distance, guiding one back home. 

They let out rooms for weary travelers, and if you looked like someone the ‘folks down in the cove’ would take a shine to, the woman at the post office would tell you to go there to find lodging, that it was a lovely little house inhabited by a man who had been injured in the war and never quite made a full recovery and his lifelong friend, who had moved in to support him. At least, that was what they told the busibodies in town.

If you found yourself at Cove Cottage, you would be met by the aforementioned men, one with a cane and a mischievous smile and one with white hair yet a youthful glow in his eyes unmatched by anyone on earth. They would welcome you in and lead you upstairs, down a hallway past two rooms marked _Moomin_ and _Snufkin_ respectively, and then to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. A skilled eye would notice the way that the Snufkin room seemed virtually unlived in compared to the rumpled mattress and comfortable disorder of the Moomin room. Your room would be pretty and quaint, with a double bed swathed in a handmade quilt and bunches of brittle, browned hydrangeas in a glass vase by the gable window overlooking the mountains. 

They would invite you downstairs for dinner (roast chicken and potatoes) and a game of boston and tea on the porch. The man with the cane, after destroying you with a stellar hand and, you suspect, an affinity for card sharping, would rest his head in the white-haired man’s lap. You all would listen to Dolly Parton croon on the radio as the sun set and the man with the cane would say, “now _that’s_ a woman,” with a secretive smile. The white-haired man would laugh and say, “I’ve always been more of an Emmylou fan, myself.”

If you were lucky, you would get to hear them play. The white-haired man would take out his banjo and the man with the cane would wail on a harmonica, and you would think to yourself that they played and harmonised as if it were second nature for them, as if they had never sung a note without the other singing thirds. 

_I got a letter from my true love up in Baltimore  
He said if I would be his love he'd never roam no more._

A cat would rub up against your leg, a cat who was named Miss Lavender and, according to the men, an absolute terror. But as she wove among your feet you wouldn’t think her a terror at all. In fact, you would think, this is the kind of life I want to live. This is happiness. 

_I got a letter from down the road  
I got a letter from down the road;  
I don't wanna go to heaven, I don't wanna go below  
Just wanna stay with my true love until the trumpet blows._

When you awoke, you would stand in your pajamas at the gable window and watch the fog lift from its oppressive hold over the lonely mountains in the distance, revealing the rolling hills lit aflame by the rising sun. And a warm feeling of content would nestle in the pit of your stomach because you would know, without a doubt, two men below you would be standing on the porch in the morning chill, hands entwined, watching the exact same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone.  
> wowowow what an adventure! this was a wild ride from the beginning and i'd like to thank all of you for encouraging me to continue with your lovely lovely comments. Thank you everyone who read this, i love you all <3  
> i'll see you soon, my friends  
> \- order_of_the_forks

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello!
> 
> some business:  
> \- idea is Fully by reys_humble_habod on instagram <3  
> \- the title is from the poem Gray Fog by Sara Teasdale  
> \- ok i know that finland sided with germany during ww2 but none of our beloved characters are nazis so you can read it in two ways a) that they do not live in finland but some unspecified ally country or b) they they live in an alternate universe finland but whatever you want to do just read it from a lense of not-nazism (fuck nazis)


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